


Salt Boy

by dornfelder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, D/s undertones, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Rough Sex, Suicide Attempt, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 125,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon’s life hangs in the balance. King Stannis makes him an offer he cannot refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Theon I

**Author's Note:**

> Based on and taking off from one of Martin’s sample chapters for The Winds of Winter. Also adapts various theories concerning the outcome of the impending battle of Winterfell as well as canon-based assumptions about Jon Snow’s true parentage. You can read all those theories in forums and communities all over the web.
> 
> Beta: **siamesesaysmeow** aka **HiroProtagonist** , who does an awesome job betaing this monster fic and dealing with my awful grammar errors, and who's just an awesome person altogether.
> 
> Edit:  
> The sample chapter has now been replaced on Martins' webpage, so for those who have not read it, here is a brief summary. Theon is a captive of Stannis, tied up in the watchtower, and gets to listen while Stannis talks to the Braavosi banker and Justin Massey (who he intends to send to Braavos to hire sellswords, and deliver 'Arya Stark' to Jon at the Wall) and deals with the Karstarks and their treason. He asks Theon about the Boltons (knowing they will attack soon) and threatens to burn him as a sacrifice to R'hllor. Asha asks Stannis to give Theon a clean death under a weirwood tree instead (obviously convinced begging for his life would be usesless).

After Asha and all the others were gone, Stannis and Theon remained in silence. Theon had stopped smiling a while ago. How long he had been chained to the wall, he could not begin to guess. 

His shoulders ached in agony. It was surprising, he thought, that he could still feel pain after all. 

All his begging had not convinced Stannis to let him down. Theon began to think nothing would. 

Stannis paced the room in circles and stopped in front of Theon to regard him with disdain. “Three fingers. What else has the bastard cut off?”

Theon closed his eyes. “Toes,” he croaked out.

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Most of your teeth are missing as well,” Stannis stated, as if Theon did not know. “What else did he do to you?”

Theon recalled Kyra, and the dogs. Months spent in darkness. Rats, rotting straw, dampness and cold. Unbearable pain. He shuddered in his chains. Stannis likely would not care if he told him. The flaying. One could not possibly describe the amount of pain it caused. _He made me beg to cut them off._ There had been other kinds of pain, easier to depict, more commonly known. The whip, and the hot iron rod, a few times. Knives. Pain, so much pain. Theon gritted his teeth. 

“He made me his _Reek_.”

“Did he rape you?”

“No.” _He only made me watch him rape the girls. Beth. Kyra. Alison. And use my mouth to lick him clean, afterward._ The chains clanked as he trembled and fought the urge to vomit. Surely the king would punish him.

Stannis called for his guards. “Let him down,” he told them. 

The chains ran through iron rings high at the wall and were fastened to another, bigger ring at the bottom. The guards unlocked them and Theon tumbled to the floor in a clatter of iron. He sobbed in relief, barely aware of the hurt the fall had caused, and curled up on the floor. Would Stannis send him to the block? Or would it be the rope? Theon failed to notice when the guards left them alone again. When he dared to lift his head, they were gone.

“They say your were handsome once,” the king mused impassively and crouched down in front of him. He scowled as Theon shrank back and curled up even tighter. “Look at me, turncloak. _Theon_.”

Obedience was an ingrained habit. Theon cowered down as low as he could and peered at Stannis from behind a filthy tangle of hair. 

“No one will say that now; the bastard saw to that.” 

How could one possibly reply to that? 

“Very well,” the king said as he rose to his feet again. “The northern lords would have your head. If I were to spare your life, I would indeed require your service, as you have offered.”

“Whatever you want, Your Grace.” _I want to live._

“Be careful what you agree to,” Stannis replied in a caustic tone. “You will find my offer is neither a generous, nor a merciful one.”

“What would you have of me, then?”

“Your submission. Your body to use as I see fit. And, yes, that means exactly what you think.”

The king smiled thinly when Theon gaped at him, open-mouthed. 

“I will do what Bolton would not. You may refuse, but think long and hard before you do so, as refusal will mean the fires. We might find out whether your father was a true king after all. Submit to me, and you will be free to take the black once this war is won.”

Another forceful shudder ran through Theon. “Why?” he whispered. “You do – you do not desire me.”

Stannis’ mouth curled in a bitter parody of a smile. “No.”

“Then why...”

“My reasons need not concern you. Do as I request, or die a traitor’s death at the stake.”

The king turned and walked towards his chair. “You have until the morrow to make your decision.”

 _I want to live. I became Reek so I could live. Ramsay’s Reek. Now I will become Stannis’ whore._ He did not have to think about it. 

“I will do as Your Grace commands,” Theon whispered.

Stannis looked at him sharply. “Are you sure of that, turncloak?”

_Beg. He wants me to beg._

_He always wants me to beg._

Theon was on his knees already. He bowed his head. “Please, Your Grace. Let me serve you.” 

The king’s gaze rested on him. “So be it. Obey me, guard your lying tongue, and you may keep your life after all. Betray me, and you will find yourself dying a slow and gruesome death. Now get out of my sight until I summon you.”

~~~~~

The maester studied Theon’s maimed hands with detached curiosity. He took care not to touch the stumps, but let Theon flex his remaining fingers and tested the strength of his grip. 

“Not too bad,” he commented. “Once you regain your strength, you will do just fine,” to which Theon responded with a disbelieving snort. 

The maester gave Theon a salve to apply to his scars, and padding for his feet in the heavy boots he wore, so he would not stumble as often. Insisting on a full examination, he also made Theon remove his clothes in the blistering cold. It took all of Theon’s willpower not to run screaming. The young man he had once been, who had been so comfortable in his body and unconcerned with nakedness, was well and truly gone. He could not be Reek when he was naked, without the protection of caked dirt, stink and the rags Ramsay had given him. It made it too hard to remember what he was supposed to be. But the maester kept insisting, and in the end Theon could not refuse. With trembling hands he shed his clothes, covering his groins with his hands as he stood in front of the fire.

“I need to see,” the maester told him curtly. “His Grace bade me to attest that you are free of diseases.”

The order, of course, made sense. He had slept with the dogs. Theon fought not to flinch when the maester touched him with cold, clinical hands. _Flinching just makes it worse, he told himself. He doesn’t like it when you avoid his touch; it only makes him angry._ Theon held still and endured.

The maester made him bathe in scolding hot water and took the scissors to his hair. Whole wisps of it, yellowish and straw-like, came off by themselves. Theon felt the cool metal of the blades as the maester cropped the rest of it so short he likely looked like a newly shorn sheep. 

_No loss,_ he thought, but with a hint of regret. It had been just so convenient to hide behind; Reek was used to peering out from under it. Now he would have to keep his head down all the time. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with sneak._

“Your teeth,” the maester said. “You will be better off once I have removed the ones that are splintered. Not too many will be left, but once I have access to the citadel’s suppliers again, I can have ivory or gold teeth forged for you. Provided you find someone to pay for it.”

 _Unlikely._ Theon bared the teeth in question in an ugly sneer.

“Well,” the maester shrugged. “I would offer milk of the poppy, if I had not run out a month ago. As it is, I can only offer you a mug of strongwine. Do I need to strap you to the table for the extraction, or will you take the wine and let me do my work?”

Never let it be said that Theon did not know how to choose the lesser of two evils. “The wine.”

~~~~~

After the maester was done with him, Theon got a new set of clothes and a new set of chains. The guards shackled his hands and feet with a short fetter, with just enough leeway to walk unhindered, but running or riding or fighting were out of the question. At least he did not have to wear a collar. One of the stewards gave him a lumpy pallet and told him where he could sleep. By the time they left him alone, Theon was so exhausted he could barely stand on his own two feet. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the straw.

~~~~~

“Come on, turncloak, the king calls for you.”

The guard knocked on the stone wall with the handle of his spiked maze. “Better hurry.”

Theon struggled to get to his feet, shackles clanking. “Why?”

“Not a hunch,” the guard said with a shrug. “Now make haste. The king doesn’t like to be left waiting.”

Led by the guard – Eben, one of the king’s men from the stormlands - Theon was taken through the camp. Men spat and murmured as he passed. _Turncloak. Traitor. Kinslayer._ Some of them had taken to calling him other things. _Bolton’s bitch._ They did not know why the king kept him alive and disapproved of it. Had they known what Stannis intended to do with him, surely their insults would have been worse. 

Eben delivered him to the king’s men keepin guard at the watchtower’s base. While Stannis slept in a comfortable tent surrounded by his men-at-arms, he had turned the simple stone structure into his provisional solar. 

One of the men knocked on the door, waiting for Stannis to grant permission to enter. “Your Grace, the turncloak.”

“Send him in,” Stannis’ snarling voice was heard from within, and Theon braced himself.

~~~~~

The king waited until Theon had closed the door. Only then did he look up from the parchment on the table, raising an eyebrow as he spotted Theon.

“I see Maester Pylos has done his duty. Not that you look any less hideous. I am no beauty myself, but you look the worse for wear. At least the scrub you called your hair is gone.”

Theon nodded, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

Without further delay Stannis rose to his feet and took off his gloves. “Come here. Pull down your breeches and bend over the table.”

Only the thought of the stake made Theon move. _I survived the flaying. Nothing Stannis does to me could ever be that bad,_ he told himself. Nothing to be afraid of. Just a fuck, a little blood, maybe. It was not the fucking that killed the girls. And if they thought it was bad, they knew better once Ramsay started skinning them. 

His fingers trembled as he undid the laces, and his whole body shook as he bent over the table, bracing himself, gripping the opposite edge with his hands. He hoped he could hold on with enough strength to keep himself upright. Behind him, the king unfastened his breeches.

Stannis was swift and brutally efficient. His callused fingers applied oil to Theon’s most private parts - where not even Ramsay’s hands had ever gone – and as he moved into position behind him, his thumbs spread Theon’s arse wide. When Stannis pushed in with his cock, it burned and stung. Theon hid his tears of pain in the rough fabric of his shirt and bit his own arm to hold the noises in. 

The fucking was hard, fast and over quickly. Stannis’ body went rigid behind him, and he groaned and thrust in one last time. He pulled out immediately after and Theon heard the rustling of clothes. 

“Get dressed and leave,” Stannis ordered.

He paid him no attention as Theon laced up his breeches and instead sat down behind his desk, studying what Theon recognized as a map. 

Not even when Theon left the room, wincing from the savage, searing pain, did the king look at him.


	2. Stannis I

Stannis had known the Greyjoy girl would find out sooner rather than later. Briefly he wondered if the turncloak had told her or whether she was perceptive enough to guess. 

“May I have a word with Your Grace,” she said with steel in her voice when the guards had let her in. Stannis wondered where she took the courage to speak to him like that. _The blood of the kraken runs in her veins. I must not underestimate her._

“As long as you do not waste my time with pointless begging.”

“Ironborn do not beg,” was her predictable reply. “I demand to know what you plan to do with my brother.”

“That depends on how he behaves.”

“The last time we spoke, you talked about killing him. A clean, merciful death.”

“It might still come to that,” Stannis affirmed. “Do you wish for his death so badly?”

“No. Nor do I wish for him to be tortured.”

“I do not torture your turncloak brother.”

“No, you rape him, is that better?” she asked bitterly. 

Stannis frowned at her. “As far as I am aware, it is customary for your people to abduct and violate any women unlucky enough to survive the pillaging of their homes. Saltwives, I believe you call them.”

“I have never allowed any of my men to take a woman who was not willing,” Lady Asha objected.

“Aye, but how many women have suffered that very treatment from your brother and his men when he raided the coast?”

The Greyjoy girl fell silent at that, as he had known she would. She was far from finished, though, and he had not expected any less. The ironborn were like the tide, receding only to return again with full force.

“Rapists are punished with a gelding in your army,” she challenged him. 

“Your brother consented to this.”

“You threatened to burn him otherwise. How is that anything else but rape, Your Grace? When the alternative is death by fire?”

“Death is not the worst thing to happen to a man. Your brother is a traitor, a liar, and a coward. He preferred this agreement to a clean and merciful death.”

“Burning is not a mercy.”

“At least it is relatively swift. There are worse ways to die. I assume Ramsay Bolton made him aware of that.” 

“You know what Ramsay did to him,” Asha said, and although she had not shown any signs of weakness before, now her voice wavered. “Has he not suffered enough for what he did?”

“He has suffered, that much is true. Whether it is sufficient to atone for his sins, I cannot say. He slew two little boys – his warden’s sons – and put Winterfell to the torch. Your brother is no innocent.”

“Theon is...” Asha hesitated. “He is not the man he used to be. The bastard broke him. If he has merely traded off one tormentor for another..”

“Are you fond of your brother after all?” Stannis asked, displaying an offhandedness he did not feel. “Worry not. The turncloak is stronger than he looks. As long as he does as I tell him, no further harm will come to him.”

She jerked her head up and glared at him, her eyes full of scorn. “I though you were just, and a man fit to be king. I see now that I was mistaken.” 

“Mind your tongue, my lady,” Stannis warned her. “You are trying my patience. I am sympathetic to your concern as a sister, but I will not suffer insults from you.” 

Asha Greyjoy took a deep breath. “What if I offered to take his place?” she asked.

Certainly he should have seen this coming. She was no shy maiden. Her courage was admirable; her brazenness a lot less so.

“No,” he declined brusquely.

“Why not? Surely you do not want Theon for his beauty, or his ready whit. What pleasure could you possibly take from an unwilling bed partner? Your Grace could do better.”

 _He was willing enough,_ Stannis wisely did not say out loud. He had seen how skillfully she wielded her ax. _He did as I told him, and went without a word when I dismissed him. I do not need his eagerness, or any pretense from his side._

“You are a woman wed.”

“Without my consent.”

“Your liege lord gave you away in marriage.”

“And I don’t care.”

“I do,” Stannis said. “Moreover, _I_ am wed, and would not shame my wife by getting another woman with child.”

“Is it any better to shame her by raping my brother?” she demanded to know. “Or do you want to shame _him_ even further by taking him in a woman’s stead?”

“Would you rather I killed him?” Stannis asked. “The mountain lords would leave me no choice. Your brother has to pay for what he did, one way or another. This might satisfy them.”

“One might think what Bolton did was bad enough,” she stated boldly. “Do you know, Your Grace, that Bolton flayed his fingers, one by one, and left him like that until he begged to have them cut off? _Ironborn do not beg._ If the clan leaders are not satisfied with that, mayhaps Your Grace should reconsider your choice of allies.” 

The latter was said in a derisive tone, and Stannis felt his blood pulse hotly in his veins. “Enough! It is not your place to question my reasons, and I will no longer tolerate your insolence. Your brother has made his bed, now he has to lie in it. If he finds it a less than agreeable place to be, it is his own fault and of no concern to you. Now leave, before I lose my temper.”

When she was gone, Stannis took a deep breath, hands clenching into fists at his side. Had there been wine to drink, he would have taken it, and gladly.

_What have I done? What have I become?_

How much had he despised Robert for his vile wantonness that never minded the consequences - Edric Storm, Mya Stone, that smithy’s apprentice, and the gods knew how many others - or Renly for his foolhardy infatuation with the Tyrell boy? 

_I have denied myself for so many years. What good has it done to me?_

All those years, he had hidden it even from himself. _Davos was married, and I could not possibly have him, so there was no need to consider whether I wanted him._

Then he had come to the Wall and met another man, younger, more beautiful, but just as honest, brave and fiercely loyal. _Ned Stark’s son, and I could not have him either. And it became harder to pretend I did not want what I saw. Maybe, if he had taken my offer..._

Jon Snow had chosen the Wall. 

Davos Seaworth had died in White Harbor.

_My onion knight died in my service, and I did not even know. I never told him what his friendship meant to me. I never begged his forgiveness for the sons I took from him and sent to their fiery death. I never told him that I held him in the highest regard, and envied the woman he loved so dearly._

Two men he could not have, and both were lost to him. What he _could_ have instead, he did not want. And yet, stripped of the remnants of his denial, he knew what it was his body craved, and decided in childish defiance to take it. 

The turncloak was a man without honor, so naturally by bedding him Stannis could not dishonor him further. He would not have done that to any other man under his command. That he had made Greyjoy his whore might even appease the northern lords’ thirst for blood. Stannis grimaced in disgust at the thought. _I do not want him, but I can have him._

Aye, it had felt good to fuck, the pure, physical pleasure of it, with no regard for the person underneath him. It had been so long since he had found release by his own hand – he had never particularly enjoyed that act – and longer still since he had bedded Selyse. That held not much enjoyment either: it was a duty to fulfill, and while he had never neglected a duty in his life, it did not mean he liked it, or that he did not find it degrading.

Stannis did not wish to hurt Greyjoy, but if the turncloak suffered a little discomfort, it was of no concern to him. The man had proven he could stand the pain – after what he had endured under the Bolton bastard, a little soreness would not ail him. Stannis meant what he had said to Asha: Theon was stronger than he looked, and lucid enough, as he had proven when Stannis had questioned him about the Boltons and their allies the other day. 

Stannis had thought this through; there was no use in questioning himself now the deed was already done. He might as well take as much pleasure from having Greyjoy as his catamite as he could. Between the snow storms, the famine and the impending battle, it seemed as likely as not that he would die in the North. Why not, for once, make the best of what he had?


	3. Theon II

“Please, just a little more,” Theon begged. 

The cook spat at his feet. “No more for you, turncloak. I say you’ve had too much already.”

 _In the dungeons, at least I had rats._ Stannis’ men provided him with horse meat and bits of fish, but the portions were smaller than anyone else’s. At Winterfell he had been eating better, and was no longer used to going hungry.

“Please,” he tried, giving Reek’s sleazy smile to the cook who shook his head in disgust and turned away. 

That was when the horn calls announced the approaching enemy.

Theon almost dropped his roasted piece of horse meat. He clutched it tightly to his chest as he hurried from the long hall, looking for a place to hide. _He is coming. He will be so angry._ All thoughts of Stannis and his men were forgotten as he imagined Ramsay’s face, the unleashed fury. 

He dropped his meager, forgotten meal in surprise when he was seized by the arms by two of Stannis’ guards. “There you are, Turncloak, we have been looking for you. You will come with us, now.”

Theon tried to break free of their grasp. “No,” he wailed. “No, no, nooo...” 

It was to no avail. They dragged him inside the watchtower and chained him, facing the wall with his arms above his head, so that he could not move any more than the first time they had hung him up there. At least his weight rested on his feet this time. It was a small comfort. 

“You don’t understand,” he pleaded. “He is coming for me, I need to hide. Please, I saved the Lady Arya, please let me go. I am the king’s man now.”

One of the guards laughed, a cruel sound. “The king’s whore, you mean.”

The other locked the chains to the wall, safely out of reach. “We are under the king’s orders. He told us to make sure you cannot sneak off during the battle. As long as she knows that you have no chance to escape, the men that follow your kraken sister will fight at his side as she promised.”

They went and barred the door after that, and Theon could not hear a thing, could not see a thing in the darkness. 

“No,” he whispered. “Please, my name is Theon. I am not _him_.” 

~~~~~

Hours had gone by, how many, Theon could not guess. After a while, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Some time later, a tiny amount of light streaming in from the top of the tower told him that the sun had come up.

He had heard a few horn calls at first, and the voices of men shouting and preparing for battle. Then nothing, for a very long time. 

More horn calls rang in the distance. Theon could not tell whether they came from Stannis’army or Bolton’s. He wanted to know what was happening outside, yet was scared out of his wits that someone would open the door. _Ramsay._

The fear kept him awake for some time, but hunger and exhaustion finally took their toll on him. Theon eventually passed out, still chained, with his forehead pressed against the the rough, cold stone. 

Theon awoke with a start when the door was opened. Torchlight fell into the room, and a tall, dark figure stood in the doorway. He could hear voices from the outside, men talking and cheering. The battle was over. Who had won? He tried to turn his head, afraid of what he would see. It had to be Ramsay. 

It was not. 

“I had all but forgotten about you, turncloak,” Stannis Baratheon stated. Exhaustion was audible in every syllable.

“Pardon, Your Grace,” another man said, and yelled a moment later, “You there, bring the man with the keys to the turncloak’s chains.”

“Has he been in there the whole time?” a woman’s voice asked. _Asha,_ Theon thought. _My sister. Thank gods._

“He was chained to the wall at my command,” Stannis confirmed. “It kept him safe and in place.”

Eben arrived with the keys and unlocked the chains. Theon heaved a grateful sigh, finally able to move his arms again after hours of forced immobility. The blood returned with a prickling pain that hurt worse than expected. He crossed his arms and rubbed them with his hands to dispel the numbness. 

“You could have locked him in here without trussing him up like a pig for slaughter,” Asha complained.

Stannis turned his head toward her. “Give it a rest, woman. Your brother is alive and well; be grateful. Now leave us.”

The king did not wait for Asha to obey, but stepped inside and closed the door. Theon realized they were alone. He did not know what to say, where to start; so many questions, and he doubted the king would tell him anything out of kindness

Then he saw the look in Stannis’ eyes and knew what he had come for. 

Of course, he thought, a hysterical laughter bubbling inside of him. He had to bite his tongue to keep it in. _The fever of battle._ When it came down to the fighting, and the need to fuck after, the king was a man like any other.

“Strip,” Stannis ordered, voice hoarse. “Bend over the table.”

Theon obeyed. With his hands still partly numb, he could not undo the laces fast enough. Stannis was behind him and tore down his breeches, pressed him down onto the table with one hand. 

Theon could not suppress a whimper of distress. 

“Spread your legs. And be still.” 

It did not take long. The pain was worse than the first time, with only spit to lessen the friction, but Theon assumed he should be grateful for even that small mercy. Stannis fucked him hard, grunting and sweating and drawing cries of pain from him with each thrust, despite all his effort to keep quiet. 

After Stannis had come, he slumped down on top of Theon. The pauldrons and links of iron chain mail of Stannis’ armour dug into Theon’s back as the king’s crushing weight pinned him there, helpless.

The king withdrew. Theon hissed, sore and hurting all over. He would barely be able to walk. 

Stannis did not need to tell him to get dressed; he did so as fast as he could and turned around to face the king.

Stannis took off the rest of his armor. Eben had put the old, rusty bracket next to the door to use as he came in. In the flickering torch light, Theon could see the bone-deep exhaustion in Stannis’ face. His weary stance gave away how much strength it took just to stand upright. Yet only moments ago, he had been on Theon like a wild animal. 

Dried blood and gore stained his armor and his face, but he seemed unharmed. He looked like a warrior king of the North, cruel and ferocious. 

When Stannis noticed Theon’s eyes on him, he stopped his movements and looked up. Weariness settled on his hollow features.

“Go, turncloak. See your sister, she will tell you what you need to know.”

Theon left.

~~~~~

Asha’s face held the same kind of exhaustion as the king’s. If she, too had been caught by a kind of battle fever, it did not show. Quarl the Maid was nowhere to be seen. 

“They are all dead. The Freys, the Boltons, the Umbers. It was a slaughter. They had thought we were unaware of their approach, and had obviously planned to attack us at the break of dawn. They came at us from two sides: Boltons and Freys from the north, Manderlys and Boltons from the south. Stannis’ archers and crossbowmen spicked them with arrows and bolts before they could raise an alarm.”

“How so?” Theon asked. For an attack like that, the marksmen needed higher ground to aim.

Asha shook her head with the tiniest hint of a smile. “Where have you been for the last few days, brother? Stannis had his men build walls all around the village, had them manned and guarded.”

“Walls? Made of what?” 

“Of ice,” she said and laughed at his puzzlement.

But of course. It made sense, given where Stannis had been before heading for Winterfell. At the Wall he had obviously developed a taste for battlements of frozen debris. 

“Then we attacked their front. I fought at the center, with the king and his men, and the few enemies who reached us were cut down. Stannis was vicious, like he wanted to kill each and every one of them by himself. I may not like the man, but I have to admit he fights as well as any ironborn.”

“Their large number of horses, their men well-fed and rested – victory should have been theirs. Part of the reason it was not was Mors Umber – he let them pass at Winterfell, pretended to flee and sent some of his men north, with Bolton’s scouts at their heels. The first night as the host set up camp, the rest of them atttacked the flanks and killed or stole dozens of horses.”

Asha took a deep breath and a deep gulp from her waterskin. Sweat and grime had dried on her face. _A year ago, I might have fought at her side. I was a man back then, not the fearful creature that escaped the dungeons of the Dreadfort._

“What decided the battle, however, was that the Manderlys changed sides,” his sister continued with a gleam in her eyes. “Ser Godry’s knights came at them full force, but they threw aside their spears and drew swords to attack the Boltons. It was Lord Wyman’s ploy, he had told them to keep up the pretense he was fighting for Bolton and the boy king when he actually set up the trap and let it spring during the battle. He remained at Winterfell, safe within the walls. He offers Stannis to help him take the castle without a siege.”

Theon could not help but think of the series of murders at Winterfell, and what had happened in its wake. _Roose Bolton underestimated him. It must have Manderly, too, who slaughtered the Freys. He learned his lesson in betrayal from the Red Wedding._

“Bolton will be furious,” Theon muttered.

“Bolton is _dead_ ,” she said with a glee that reminded him of the young girl she had once been. “They shot his horse and he was buried underneath.”

Theon did not dare to ask. “What about...”

Her expression turned from elation into pity too quickly. Theon looked away and scratched his short-cropped hair. 

“Ramsay remained at Winterfell. The few men we questioned said that he had a new pet, the wildling king called Mance Rayder. They also claimed he was mad with fury about Lady Arya’s escape and wanted to head north to bring her back.”

Theon shuddered.

“We will march on Winterfell in a few days time. With the Manderlys on our side, the castle will fall.”

“How many men did Stannis lose?” 

“Three, maybe four hundred.”

“And Bolton?”

“About three thousand.”

Theon took a deep breath, the stale air in the hut suddenly sweet as the earliest flowers of spring. _May be it can be done. May be Stannis can win._

Asha watched him closely, concern in her eyes, mouth curling in a small smile. 

For the first time, Theon was capable of giving her a smile of his own. 

~~~~~

The days after the battle were spent clearing up the mess of it: tending to the wounded and dying, raiding the dead of their weapons and supplies and burning their bodies. The Manderlys had brought provisions that helped Stannis nourish his starving men: that, and the horses slain during the battle, whose corpses had frozen so fast they would be able to eat off them for weeks. 

Theon did not have much to do but wander the camp and try to go unnoticed. His habit of hiding in the shadows proved more useful now that people could not smell him from afar. He overheard a couple of conversations by accident, so when, on the third day, two hundred men – Manyderlys and Umbers and Manderlys disguised as Freys - left he camp, heading for Winterfell, it came as no surprise to him. What he had not known was that they would take the king’s sword, Lightbringer, with them.

 _They will try to convince Ramsay that Stannis is dead,_ he concluded. Would Ramsay fall for it? _He will ask why they did not bring his head. They will tell tales that the bodies were mangled and unrecognizable. They will says they never saw the king, and would not know him from the other dead men surrounding him. Will Ramsay believe them? Maybe._

That night, the king summoned him again. 

Theon limped as he left the tower afterward. He felt the men’s eyes on him, scornful and derisive. _Bolton’s bitch. The king’s whore._ Did they know that the king fucked him as viciously as he fought his enemies? Theon still wondered why. With Ramsay, he had known the reasons, most of the time, why he did something. When he had not, Ramsay had made him understand. 

The king took no pleasure from hurting him. Theon knew how that kind of pleasure looked on a man’s face. The king only wanted to fuck, obviously, but why not take one of his pretty squires, or one of his knights? 

Theon walked slowly, concentrating on every step, treading carefully on the frozen ground. He felt wetness trickle between his legs. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leak._

~~~~~

The host marched again. Their approach to Winterfell went smoothly, since Umber’s men scouted for them and lead the way. With every step he took, Theon felt worse. All his strength seemed to be sucked out of him. For a short moment, back in the village, he had believed that Stannis could free him of Ramsay. The closer they came to the familiar lands surrounding Winterfell, the more the terror held him in his grip. He fell back in Reek’s habits, hating himself all the while yet unable to stop it. _Lord Ramsay likes his Reek. He does not like Theon Greyjoy._

Back in the village, Stannis had sent for him every night. Theon took a perverse kind of comfort from it. When the king fucked him, at least he did it to Theon Turncloak. By now he knew what was expected of him. _Bend over, spread your legs._ The pain was not as bad anymore. The king used some kind of grease or salve on him, tallowy and rancid-smelling, and was done with him quickly. It meant he was safe: safe from the stormlanders who wanted to see him burn, safe from the northmen who wanted his head on a pike, and, most important, safe from Ramsay, because as long as Stannis was there, Ramsay could not be.

Asha did not understand that. 

Part of him was glad that she did not walk with him. Surrounded by her men and Stannis’, she had no time to watch him, look out for him with that soft expression in her eyes, as if he were truly her little brother. 

Another part of him would have liked her at his side, to point out the landmarks – _that lake was where I went fishing one summer with Robb and Jon. Here I shot my first deer, one arrow, straight to the heart. This was where Robb fell off his horse, once, and got scolded by Lady Catelyn because he ruined his new fur coat in the mud._

By the time they made camp half a day from Winterfell, all of that was forgotten as well, and he could only think of what would happen once they arrived at the castle. His hands trembled constantly, and at the slightest noise he twitched like a frightened mouse.

That night, the king summoned Theon to his tent.

That was new; Stannis had only ever taken him at the tower, behind the closed oak door. The king was a private man. Was it the impending battle that made him care less about discretion, or something else?

Theon went as ordered. The guards let him enter, not sparing him a second glance. Nobody ever talked to him except to yell orders, or taunt him. It was not so different from being Reek. For the last two days, it had actually become increasingly difficult to remember who he was supposed to be. His clothes were damp and stank, the dirt of the road caked to his boots and breeches. Someone had pissed on his blanket, and rolled his pallet in horse dung. He _reeked_ again

His chains rattled as Theon bowed silently to the king.

Stannis sat on his bed, with braziers warming the small cot that was covered with furs from underneath. For a short moment Theon wondered whether Stannis wanted to take him there. _No. He would not soil his bed with my presence._

The king looked better, less tired and more determined. His eyes held a spark that had not been there in the days foregoing the battle. 

“Turncloak.” Stannis’ gaze rested on him, cool and assessing. Theon hid his trembling hands in the folds of his tunic. 

“Your Grace.”

A dark smile spread across the king’s face, but it was gone in seconds. “Kneel.”

Inexplicably shaking, Theon fell down to his knees. He stared at the floor. The tent held no furniture apart from the bed and a small three-legged stool. No table to bend over. The floor, then, likely. The bed was out of the question. Unless... 

“A different task, turncloak. Use your mouth.”

Theon swallowed down the bile. Eyes to the floor, he edged closer. As he reached for the laces holding the king’s breeches, his hands shook worse than ever. To his relief he found them already undone, and the king’s cock was hard underneath the leather. 

_I can do this. It is no worse than what I did for Ramsay._ No blood, for once. The smell was different – musk, male sweat, without the fishy smell of seed, or a woman’s cunt. 

He could do this.

Panic rose when Theon stared at his maimed hands, willing his fingers to do their task, and found that he could not.

He had to, it was the reason he was still alive, the only use he had. He retched, unable to control himself. His hands dropped uselessly as he cowered on the floor. “Please,” he whispered. “I cannot... _please._ ”

 _Don’t hurt me. Please. No, not again. Please don’t make me,_ he had begged when he had still been Theon. _Before._

It had been of no use then, as it would be of no use now. 

_I want to live._

Yet he found he could not move, could not even breathe. He retched again. Soon he was out of air, trying to draw a breath and failing. 

“Turncloak,” the king said. Theon barely heard him.

“Greyjoy, gods be damned, will you _breathe._ You need not fear. I will not have you executed for your refusal, for heaven’s sake.” 

Harsh as Stannis’ words were, they calmed him, until Theon no longer felt like he was being strangled. He inhaled deeply, breath hitching in his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Your Grace, thank you...”

“Enough,” the king interrupted him gruffly. “Your grovelling disgusts me.”

Stannis stood and and turned around. A moment later, a goblet was thrust in Theons hand. “Drink,” the king ordered. 

Theon hesitated.

“It is water. _Drink._ ”

Theon did, let the cool liquid wash away the taste of bile and fear.

“Good. Now look at me, turncloak.”

He did, only capable of holding Stannis’ eyes for a breath or two before he dropped his gaze again

“Did Bolton make you do this?”

“Y... yes, Your Grace? Not like –” but he could not finish and instead studied the ground intently. 

Stannis said nothing for a while. 

“You may go,” he bid at last. “Be ready when I summon you again.”


	4. Stannis II

Stannis held his vigil in silence. From the hilltop, he could overlook the lowlands between the range of hills that hid his host from view and see Winterfell. He waited for the light signal to announce the beginning attack from within the walls. His men waited with him, scouts and vigilant knights who knew better than to disturb him.

If Manderly had told the truth in his letter, the gates would be opened before dawn.

That was the crux of the matter. _If._

_Trust my words. Provided that our ruse succeeds, if you come to Winterfell at the night of the full moon, the gates will be opened to you an hour before the sun rises._ 


Did he dare trust the fat lord who had slaughtered his envoy?

_You and I have matters to discuss. More often than not these days, things are not as they seem; bear that in mind when you decide whether to accept what I am offering._ 
_The requirements of war often differ from the demands of honor; yet some kinds of betrayal can never be regarded as venial. The Red Wedding was of this nature. The North remembers, and do not doubt that I am part of the North._ 


Fair words, but Stannis had never been one to be swayed by eloquence. 

The Manderlys had taken his side in battle, which made him believe that they wanted to see the Boltons and Freys defeated. That they wanted Stannis to prevail, on the other hand, was not a given. For all he knew, they might just wait for him to dispose of the Boltons and turn against him with their next move. 

Only a fool trusted a man who had changed allegiance once, and Stannis had never been a fool. He had learned that lesson from Robert well enough. Jaime Lannister slew one king and cuckolded the other; how much bloodshed could have been avoided if Robert had sent the Kingslayer to the block?

No, Stannis did not trust Manderly. 

But he had no choice but to join in on Manderly’s deceit. The alternative was a siege of Winterfell – a less than desirable option. Stannis’ men were half-starved and weary, and winter had only just begun. Manderly’s plan had merit, but Stannis had to take care not to give Lord Too-Fat an opportunity to strike against him.

 _The hardest blow, he has already dealt. Davos, my onion knight, if only I had kept you by my side._

Stannis breathed in deeply. The air war fresh and chilling although with every gust of wind from the east, the stench of four thousand men and five hundred horses from the camp below wafted over the hill. 

Dawn was approaching fast. His men started to grow restless. Ser Gerald Gower, stepped up to Stannis. “Your Grace, what will we do if the signal does not come?” 

Stannis shrugged. “Proceed as we would have had the Manderlys not changed sides. We march for Winterfell and fight the Boltons.”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

On the far away castle wall, a light flared in the darkness and went out again, once, twice, three times. 

An excited murmur rose amongst the men. 

“Give the call to the horsemen,” Stannis commanded. “We set out for Winterfell at once.”

They mounted their horses, two men apiece in light armour, and rode fast and in tight formation. The snow dampened the sound of hoofbeats, but the creaking of horse tacks and chain mail was loud enough to announce their coming from half a league away. With the moon partly hidden behind clouds, it was a dangerous journey. 

It could not be avoided. They had to be at the gates an hour from now. 

The snow had formed walls, hills and valleys below the castle. They dismounted, sneaked up to the gates silently, and waited. 

Behind them, the rest of the host would follow, but if the advance party failed or Manderly betrayed them after all, it would mean their downfall as well.

Only briefly Stannis considered the prospect of failure. _If I fall in battle will my daughter be safe at the Wall? Protect her, Jon Snow, as I tried to protect your sister._

_No, I will not fail. The Bastard of Bolton hides within these walls. A madman and a traitor. I will not leave my men to fall prey to him._

Ramsay Bolton could not be allowed to live. Stannis owed it to the people of the North to see to that. _Snow’s sister, and the women who were less lucky than she. The ironborn he flayed after he had promised them pardon. Even the turncloak, who is mine now, for better or worse._

_Lady Melisandre, you better pray to your Lord of Light for me. I cannot fail again._

They took Winterfell within two hours.


	5. Theon III

In the morning the snow started to fall again, the thick white flakes a void that shielded the host from sight. They never saw the sun, lost behind thick clouds of gray, and it never got any brighter than a gloomy twilight. They were barely able to maintain their direction, but as there was no need to hurry, they marched slowly in a loose formation. The castle had already been taken.

It was an hour’s ride to Winterfell from the hills, but the host took half a day to arrive. At last they saw the castle in front of them, and the torches lit at both sides of the draw bridge to show them the way to the gates. Some of Stannis’ men stood guard and watched their slow progress.

Theon walked beside a few of Stannis’ men-at-arms, those who had guarded him since they had left the camp. They had taken the fetters off his feet, but his hands remained shackled. That made it hard to walk, even more so because of his maimed feet, but none of them cared. When he fell – it happened more often when he was forced to walk at a pace dictated by others – and fought to get to his feet again, he considered himself lucky if they pulled him upright. Most of the time they watched with silent contempt as he struggled to regain his footing. 

“Hurry, turncloak,” Eben called as they reached the gates. “Time to get out of the snow.”

Theon did not want to go inside. He really, really did not, but what choice did he have? The wish for something to hold onto made him pull the cloak tight around himself and cross his arms at his chest. He gripped his own forearms and squeezed them, again and again. 

Winterfell. It had been mere days since Theon had last been here. It felt so much longer, half a lifetime or more. What sight awaited them behind the walls? Had the castle had been destroyed further? How many men had been killed? _Ramsay. Is he still alive?_

A voice inside his head told him to crawl into a dark hole and hide. 

_The last time I came here, I was Reek. I knew my name. I knew my place._

_When I left, I hoped that maybe I could be Theon again._

Now he did not know. The old Theon had been many things: a prince, once; a ward for what felt like most of his life. A friend. A brother. A trusted envoy and ally.

A turncloak. 

_I thought I had no other choice. Stupid, stupid._

_That_ Theon was well and truly dead, buried deep inside the Boltons’ dungeons. He had been resilient, it had taken three fingers and four toes for him to die.

The south gate led directly into the courtyard, which was crowded with men. And with corpses, plenty of them, stacked up along the walls like bags of grain. The gates to the inner castle stood open, and Stannis’ knights went in an out, carrying supplies and running errands. In the yard, a few men piled up brushwood and twigs around a pole that had been stuck in the ground.

 _Someone will burn._ Theon squeezed his own arms. _Not me. Hopefully._

Ser Godry Farring edged his way through the crowd toward them. “Finally,” he said to Eben, scowling. “His Grace wants the turncloak.”

He eyed Theon’s unshackled feet suspiciously. “Where are the chains?”

With a shrug, Eben took them from his belt. “He had to march through the snow.” He knelt to put them on. “There. Is that better?” 

Ser Godry did not reply, merely jerked his head in the direction of the hall. Eben muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath. Aloud he said, “Lead on, ser.”

Close to the door, a dog’s corpse lay abandoned next to a severed arm, the reddish-brown fur stained with blood and partly covered with snow. 

Theon knew that dog. _Helicent._

_They fought here,_ he thought. Where the pack was, Ramsay would not be far.  
Eben elbowed him to get his attention and dragged him along into the great hall. 

Inside it was crowded as well. The wounded had been brought there, and the benches were used as makeshift cots. Maesters tended to their wounds, with squires and servants fetching water and supplies. In one corner, two foot soldiers held a man whose mangled arm was to be cut off. The smell of blood, excrements and vomit hung heavily in the air. Theon counted less wounded than he had expected: sixty men, maybe seventy, of the seven hundred Stannis had brought to the battle. 

On the dais at the far end of the wall, with his back to the modest throne, Stannis stood unmoving. Wyman Manderly was seated beside him on a chair that seemed too fragile to bear his weight. 

Barbrey Ryswell. Hother Umber, Ondrew Locke and the other lords sworn to Bolton sat on lower benches. The Freys were noticeably absent. Mors Umber, leaning onto a crutch, stood at the king’s other side. A few of Stannis’ knights – queen’s men, all of them – were present as well, guarding Stannis and keeping a watchful eye on the northerners. 

On the throne lay the king’s sword, Lightbringer, the blade unsheathed and faintly glowing.

Eben and his men stopped in front of the dais and stayed behind while Ser Godry seized one of Theon’s arms and pulled him along so fast that Theon stumbled and almost fell.

As he heard them approaching, the king turned around.

“Your Grace. I bring the turncloak,” Farring said and gave Theon a shove that sent him tumbling to the floor. He landed right before Stannis’ feet, and immediately tried to scramble back. 

The king frowned at Farring. “He is of no use to me on the floor, ser; help him up.”

Ser Godry obeyed with a scowl. “I apologize, Your Grace.” 

Stannis watched, face impassive, as Ser Godry helped Theon to his feet. The knight’s fingers dug in Theon’s arm, hard enough to leave bruises  
.  
Theon kept his head down. He recalled the wedding he had witnessed – _not only witnessed,_ a voice inside of him said snidely. The lords had seen him, they knew who he was, knew that he had become Ramsay’s creature. They had loathed him for it. 

“Theon Turncloak, of House Greyjoy,” the king said. “I assume you do recognize him, my lords, my lady. His appearance is quite unmistakable, courtesy to Ramsay Snow.” 

“Aye,” Lord Hother said. Some of the others nodded.

“Will you accept this as proof that the Lady Arya has safely arrived at my camp?”

Lady Barbrey frowned. “I shall not believe that he freed her. His hands are maimed, and he can barely walk.”

Mors Umber shrugged. “As I told you, my lady, I found them outside the walls. The turncloak carried her, albeit slowly. I sent them both to His Grace.”

The lords whispered. 

Harwood Stout cleared his throat. “How do we know that the lady is still alive?”

The king’s temper rose. “I brought you proof, yet still you doubt my word? How dare you? I am, by law, your rightful king. You swore allegiance to Roose Bolton who sat at the Red Wedding and drank the Freys’ wine, and watched as they slew your liege lord. By right all of you could be considered traitors, and yet I offered you a pardon. My patience wears thin. Take my word that the Lady Arya is safe and on her way to the Wall, and that I intend to restore the Starks at Winterfell. Swear allegiance to me - do it, or join the bastard at the stake.”

Silence followed. Stannis’ face was like a thundercloud. 

“Your Grace,” Lord Hother said carefully. “There is but one objection to consider.”

“Out with it,” the king said through gritted teeth.

“The Lady Arya... there was talk around the castle, that she did not _look_ like a Lady of House Stark and Winterfell.”

 _Not that it mattered when she was to be wed_ , Theon thought with scorn. _None of you had any objections then._

“Explain your words, my lord, and be swift,” Stannis warned Lord Hother. His eyes had narrowed dangerously.

Lord Hother stood and bowed. “No one dared say, as long as the Boltons ruled the North. Yet the girl seemed a little older, and Lady Arya was said to resemble her father, with gray eyes and dark hair. Although the maiden was comely enough, she did not look like a Stark, and her eyes were brown.”

Theon kept his eyes glued to the ground. _The stake,_ he thought. _It will be the stake for me after all._ He felt the king’s gaze like a palpable weight on his shoulders.

“The turncloak would know,” someone said. “Ask him. He gave her away at the wedding.”

Theon lifted his head. “She is the Lady Arya,” and that was not a lie, not exactly. She was Lady Arya, the same way he had been Reek. 

Stannis stared at him, eyes cold and threatening. Theon averted his gaze and squeezed his arms for comfort. 

“You heard the turncloak,” the king said. “And I will have your vows, now, or you will die with your treacherous lord’s son.”

They said their vows – all of them but Manderly – quietly and with their heads bowed.


	6. Stannis III

He seethed inside with a hot, boiling rage that threatened to overwhelm him. 

Betrayal. Betrayal, over and over again. Stannis had grown beyond weary of it. It felt like he was surrounded only by liars and perjurers. Traitors, the lot of them, and sycophants: considerate only of their own advantage, and likely as not to stab him when he turned his back on them. 

_Davos, Davos, I miss you more than ever. No one else I dare trust._

From the turncloak, at least he had not expected anything else. _I should cut his lying tongue out by myself. I should have him burnt, but if I put him on the stake now, the lords will wonder why._

He could not kill Greyjoy, not right away. Yet he wanted to. _He lied to me, and made me a liar in turn. What will Jon Snow think of me when the girl arrives at the Wall and my words speak of a promise fulfilled while he sees her and recognizes her as a fraud?_

It was too late to send out men to bring her back. He could not trust them to keep this a secret, even if they found her before she reached the Night’s Watch. 

_They will laugh behind my back. And rightly so. I should have questioned the girl myself, and not taken Umber’s word at face value. I have my preoccupation with the Boltons’ attack to blame for that. As well as my foolish wish to impress Jon Snow and send him his sister as a magnanimous gift._

Stannis paced the floor, unable to stay still even for a moment. Usually he took pride in the mastery of his mercurial temper, heritage of his Baratheon and Tagaryen ancestry. Annoyance he displayed often enough. Anger, too, when it was appropriate. 

The blazing, white-hot fury was a more perilous thing. It wanted to consume him.

Robert had often been angry, prone to temper tantrums and rash decisions in his blind rage, which he regretted afterward often as not, but his outbursts seldom lasted long. Stannis tended to brood and resent, and on the rare occasions his wrath was stirred, it was not easily allayed. 

Lady Melisandre ought to have known that, too. 

_What a fool the woman has made of me. I believed the wildling king dead, yet there he was, in a cage on the castle wall while Bolton’s dogs fought for the corpses of the wildling women who had come with him._

Had Jon Snow known of her deception? Stannis hoped not, but he could not be sure. 

The red priestess had helped him gain power, and he owed her for that. With this betrayal, though, she had made an enemy of him. _It must be she who serves me, not the other way around. It is time she learned that lesson,_ he thought, grimly. _Soon I will return to the Wall, and then we will solve that matter once and for all._

The issue of the false Lady Arya, however, had to be dealt with swiftly. The girl, whoever she was, could not be allowed to remain the Lady of Winterfell if she was not of the Stark lineage. After what Hother Umber had suggested, doubt would remain, and that was unacceptable. 

Stannis wished, more than ever, that Snow had taken his offer.

Jon Snow had chosen the Wall.

Without a Stark in Winterfell, Stannis would have to install a regent, someone who he could trust to keep the North at peace. 

Manderly? No, most certainly not. The fat lord had refused to swear allegiance to him. Even the threat of execution had not made him waver. 

“You and I, Your Grace, need to speak confidentially,” Manderly had said. “For now, accept that I am no enemy of yours. We need to settle things in Winterfell, as soon as that is done, we will have words.”

“Tell me why I would not take your head,” Stannis had snarled at him in the morning, after the fight was over and they met in the Great Hall for the first time. “You declared for Bolton and murdered my envoy, the King’s Hand.”

“That, indeed, is your privilege, Your Grace,” Manderly had replied amiably and not even tried to justify himself. “Take my head, if needs must. Yet it will not bring you allegiance of White Harbor and House Manderly.”

Stannis gritted his teeth. He wanted nothing more but to wring Manderly’s neck. The day he accepted Manderly as a Lord of Winterfell, snow would fall in the Dornish desert.

Stannis paused in his stride and took a look at his surroundings. The solar of the Lord of Winterfell was a big room with high walls, heated like the rest of the great keep by the inbuilt pipes, and with an additional fireplace at the windowless wall adjoining the smaller, rectangular keep where the servants and other members of the household lived.

While the fire had left the tower mostly intact, the interior had been destroyed. The solar had only recently been restored and luxuriously furnished. Although Stannis preferred his accommodations more modest - not in size but in décor - he had to admit the splendor suited the room well. The solar’s windows looked out into the castle yard and Stannis went and watched as his men prepared the stake. 

They were nearly done. While the clouds still hang thick and ominous, the snowfall had ceased. The wood would be damp, though: a mercy the bastard did not deserve, as he was likely to lose consciousness from the smoke before he started burning.

It was time. Stannis took a deep breath and straightened his stance. Deliberations and plans, negotiations and formalities: all those would have to wait. The stake came first.

Ser Horpe, who Stannis had charged with the command over the main host, waited at the door to the solar. 

“Your Grace. The host has set up camp in the winter town. Your knights and your guards have taken residence in the guards hall and the keeps. Three more of the wounded have died, but the maesters believe that most of the others will recover, given enough time. Food and rest, too, both of which they are likely to have now that we have taken the castle.”

“Have all the lords assembled?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“The common folk, too?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” Stannis said and went down the spiral staircase to the yard.

The yard was full of men. The lords stood in order, watching and waiting in the cold, talking in measured tones. As Stannis emerged through the heavy, iron-banded door, they fell silent one after the other. 

Lords and knights, squires and servants. Stormlanders, northmen and ironborn. Witnesses enough, and no red priestess to make a mummer’s farce of it. This time, the traitor would burn. 

Stannis nodded at Ser Clayton. “Bring the prisoner.”

To wait without a sign of tension or excitement was an art that Stannis had mastered long ago. He stood and did not move until the guards brought forth a man in chains. 

Ramsay Bolton did not come willingly. It took four men to drag him to the stake, a foot at a time. He struggled and pulled at his chains, hissing and snarling like a dog. His face was red with fury; his eyes glittered with malice. 

“False king,” the Bastard of Bolton called across the yard. “I am the Lord of Winterfell. Bow down to me, and I will spare your life.”

Stannis was reminded of the way Ramsay had fought in the great hall. The bastard hacked at his adversaries like a butcher with a meat ax. Dogs fought at his side, mean, vicious beasts, harder to kill than any of the men who stood beside their lord.

For a time, Stannis had merely watched, taking in the madness, the animality. That was no man, that was a beast that needed to be put down.

Then Ramsay had seen him. “Baratheon,” he screamed. “Baratheon, false king, come and die at my hands. I will have your skin, and my girls will feast on your entrails.”

Stannis had gone to meet him. In a clash of steel, with Ramsay wielding Lightbringer, it became obvious that whoever had taught the bastard to fight, had not deemed it necessary to teach him how to _defend._ While Ramsay delivered one blow after the other, Stannis kept him at bay and blocked every single one with a patience acquired in the years fencing with knights who were better trained and more eager to win than him, learning their weaknesses and how to best them while they still believed themselves victorious.

Ramsay was no knight, no champion. He had not vied with the best warriors of the realm. And as unpredictable as his fighting style appeared, it still followed a pattern, and Stannis recognized it quickly. 

The moment Stannis saw an opening, he thrust in earnest for the first time and pierced the bastard’s armor, right under his sword arm. The blade cut through muscle and flesh. The bastard stumbled, and it would have been easy to deliver a deadly blow, yet Stannis stepped back and waited. The bastard tried to lift Lightbringer for another attack, but instead his legs went out from under him and he dropped to his knees. Stannis watched, patiently, for long moments, before he aimed a kick at the bastard’s wrist. Lightbringer fell from Ramsay’s hands and hit the floor. 

“Seize him,” he ordered his knights. “Make sure he does not die. The Lord of Light shall have this one before the night falls.”

Even now, the Bastard of Bolton denied his defeat. “You are a liar, Baratheon, and a traitor. You killed your brother, and your heiress is a bastard,” Ramsay yelled at Stannis. Spittle flew from his mouth and covered his chin.

One could not argue with madness, so Stannis stood and stayed silent while the guards bound Ramsay to the stake. He gave the curtest nod to Ser Godry, who had once again been elected to say the prayers. 

_I am tired of these prayers,_ Stannis thought. _I am tired of the stake. The block served me well for years, perhaps it is time that I return to it._ Most of his knights would not like that. _Aye, the Lady Melisandre is a like a two-edged blade: a useful instrument, but to be wielded with care as not to cut yourself._

Stannis thought of Davos. It felt like the twist of a knife in his gut. _I should have listened to you, my brave lord._

“Lord of Light, hear us,” Farring began.

Ramsay started to laugh, a gruesome sound. “Baratheon, you will never hold the North. You will never rule in Winterfell. I made a son with my bride, the Lady Arya. I put my son in her womb. And my son will skin you and kill you.”

He threw his head back and shook strands of greasy, black hair from his face. As his mouth opened to spill more insults, the bastard suddenly halted, and his face changed. His gaze sharpened, focusing on a scarecrow of a man in a hooded cloak who stood – no, cowered – close to the castle wall, as far from Bolton as the limited space of the yard would let him. 

The turncloak

“ _You,_ ” Ramsay hissed, with his eyes narrowed. 

Then his expression changed, and a smile appeared on his face. “Have you come back to me?” he asked, and the silken, soft tone was so scarily different from before that Ser Farring’s voice wavered.

Greyjoy flinched. 

“Have you come to burn with your lord, my Reek? Come here. Come to me. There is a place for you at my side. You took my bride from me. You were wicked, Reek, so very wicked. What have I done to deserve that? Have I not been good to you? Have I not given you food, and clothing, and granted your wishes? Have you forgotten who you belong to, my Reek?”

Farring had fallen silent. The crow watched, spellbound, and the few men standing between Bolton and Greyjoy had retreated to form an alley, leaving the turncloak with no place to hide.

Asha Greyjoy shoved her own men away and edged through the crowd, whether to get to her brother or Bolton, Stannis could not say. 

“Seize her,” he commanded Ser Richard, who stood right behind him. “I will not have her cause further delay.”

“Come to me, my Reek,” Bolton said again, gently as a lover. “You are dressed in linen and fur. Do you truly think that people cannot see you for what you are? You need to remember your name.”

At that, the turncloak shuddered and started to move. He took a step toward the bastard, then another, and a third, until only a couple of feet remained between him and the pile of wood.

For a moment, it looked as if Greyjoy wanted to climb the stake.

“No,” Asha Greyjoy yelled. “No!” Ser Horpe and two of his men took her arms to hold her in place. She fought against them, trying to escape.

The turncloak’s back straightened. He took off his hood and stared at Bolton. “My name is _Theon,_ ” he said in a voice as soft as Bolton’s.

Bolton snarled, and his face contorted with sudden rage. “Traitor,” he spat. “Murderer. Kinslayer. Thief. You are a weakling and a coward. They will burn you, too. You could have had a place at your lord’s side, Reek... ”

Greyjoy did not react, and Stannis had heard enough. “Set the wood afire,” he commanded briskly.

“But we have not finished the rites,” Ser Godry protested.

“Then the Lord of Light will have to settle for the burning. Do as I bid.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ser Godry said and gave the signal.

Two men with torches set the pyre alight. Smoke rose and the bastard started to cough between his screams. The turncloak retreated, staring at the flames with wide eyes.

Consumed by flames, the Bastard of Bolton died as cruelly as he had lived.


	7. Theon IV

_Ramsay is dead._ Theon had watched the pyre for the longest time, longer than anyone else, still hidden in the yard where nobody showed a particular interest in him, only Eben looked in on him every so often. _He is dead. Whatever happens to me, it will be worth it just because I got to see him burn._

He waited until the fire died down and the snow extinguished the ember. The piercing cold had chilled him to the bone, but he could not have cared less. The need to watch in peace was too strong. At last Theon straightened himself from his slumped stance and walked away from the ashes. 

_Ramsay is dead, what will happen to me now?_ He felt so very light, felt like the wind could have captured him and taken him away.

A part of it was hunger – he had not eaten since the day before. But a larger part was the knowledge that he was free of Ramsay’s clutches. 

For a brief moment, though, Theon wondered whether he felt like that because only half of him remained. _Ramsay is gone, what has he taken from me?_ His fear, his hatred? _He took so many things from me, and now I wonder what is left_.

Theon had never been one for silent contemplation if he could avoid it, and so he shook his head and went to find a meal. Surely the cooks would give him some horse meat, at least, now that they had an abundance of it.

Eben caught up with him before he reached the kitchen. “Where do you think you’re going, turncloak?” 

“To eat,” Theon replied. “If it please my lord,” and bowed like he would have before Stannis. 

Eben did not appreciate his sense of humor. “His Grace said to take you to him as soon as you were done watching.” He spat on the ground. “Eating, he mentioned not, so you won’t.”

There was no use in protesting, so Theon shrugged and followed Eben without further delay. 

The king had taken residence in the solar. It looked the same as when Roose Bolton had summoned Theon there and Lady Barbrey had made him take off his gloves. Now the king occupied the chair behind the sturdy oak table. 

Eben delivered Theon and left with a deep bow. Once the guard had closed the door, Stannis stood and came around the table.

The king’s voice was like the crack of a whip. “Kneel.”

Theon sank to his knees. 

“Who is the girl?” the king asked, and the tightly leashed fury in his voice frightened Theon. _If he fucks me know, there will be blood._

“Her name is Jeyne.” The rhyme came to his mind unbidden and it took all his willpower not to say it aloud. Stannis did not appreciate rambling. “Jeyne Poole. The steward’s daughter.”

“The Boltons. Did they know?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Though they - they never said, but they knew.”

“Turncloak. You will look me in the face and not avert your eyes again, lest you want them pried out.” 

It was not an empty threat, Theon could tell. He lifted his head and looked straight at the king.

“You lied to me. Do you recall what I promised you, in case you betrayed me?”

Theon nodded slowly.

The king came closer. Theon had to tilt his head back to hold his gaze. 

“Then tell me why I should not kill you here and now, turncloak.” Stannis’ voice was dark with the prospect of violence. Theon shuddered.

“You can,” he whispered. “You can.”

“Of course I can. That was never the question. Why you lied, and continued to lie, I want to know.”

“I had to,” Theon pleaded, trying to make the king understand. “Had I told... he would have killed me, and her, but slowly... he would have taken my fingers, one after the other, and my toes, and my hands after and my feet. For her... The skinner. Then the dogs. He would have made me watch...”

Stannis’ face was near expressionless, but something flickered in his eyes. “I understand why you lied to Bolton. But why to me?”

“Umber – he questioned her. If we had told them, what would he have done? Killed her. Killed me.”

“Possible,” the king said. “I believe he would have sent you to me anyway. The question remains, and you will answer me truthfully. Why did you lie to me?”

“I did not.”

Stannis’s nostrils flared and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “You said...”

“That I saved her. The girl. Not: ‘the Lady Arya’.”

“In front of the lords, this very day, you lied.”

“No. It was true. You must understand. She _was_ the Lady Arya. They _made_ her Lady Arya. She learned her name.” _As I learned mine._

“A lie does not become the truth merely because enough people believe in it,” Stannis scoffed, and Theon read disdain in his eyes. They were blue, as blue as Theon’s, as blue as the sky when the night fell in the North.

“No,” Theon agreed. “But it was no lie, can you not see that?” He felt lightheaded. The room span around him.

Stannis stared at him. “You are insane.”

Theon sniggered. Then he laughed, and still he looked at Stannis. The laughter broke off, and he stared back and whispered, “I think I am.”

He was not surprised when Stannis dragged him up and shoved him against the wall. The king’s hands were at his throat and strangled him. He coughed and struggled, futilely.

Even after weeks of starvation, Stannis was still so much stronger than him, broad-shouldered and tall and with a warrior’s strength, that Theon found he could not break the king’s hold. What little fight he had left went out of him. He felt dizzy already from the lack of air. 

Stannis’ hands released his throat. Theon threw his head back against the wall and gasped for breath. 

“You will never lie to me again,” Stannis whispered. “ _Never._ ”

“No,” Theon agreed. 

“Your life is mine.”

“Yes.”

Stannis kissed him, a harsh, owning kiss meant to punish, and Theon opened for it as if he had never done anything else in his life. It lasted for a mere second before Stannis spun him around, slammed him against the wall and tore at his breeches. 

_Yes,_ Theon thought, giddy with relief and something he could not name, and for a moment he wanted it, Stannis’ hands on his skin, Stannis’ his breath hot on his neck, wanted to be owned and taken, to feel alive. His knuckles scraped over the rough stone and bled as he clawed at the wall and sobbed. 

For a moment, it almost felt good.

Then came the pain, rising like a wave, washing over him until he lost his anchor and was carried away to a place of blazing white, into an ocean of nothingness.

~~~~~

Theon came to on a cold stone floor. He heard voices from afar. “...the dungeons, at least.” 

Stannis’ reply was less than benign. “Their demands are of no interest to me. See to it, as I told you, and provide him with food and a place to rest.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I entrust you with his safety. If any harm comes to him, I will hold you responsible.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And tell Lady Asha of his whereabouts. I do not wish for her to come barging in and demand to know what I did to her precious brother. Now go.”

Footsteps approached. Theon opened his eyes and saw Ser Harys Cobb bending over him. 

“Greyjoy. Can you stand?”

It was more difficult than he had thought. The pain was dire, and what remaining strength he had, he lost while the knight led him through the great keep.

An elderly steward told them they would find quarter in the guest rooms of the smaller keep that had once been kept ready to accommodate close relatives of the Starks. Cobb led him there and took the longest possible way through the yard and wind and snow. Theon did not bother to mention it to him. 

The guest room itself had a small, adjoining alcove with an open archway leading to the main corridor, where the guest’s valet or children could sleep. Cobb stopped there and cleared his throat. 

“This seems suitable. I expect that my squire and I will take the larger room, since I have been assigned the duty of guarding you...”

The alcove had a stone floor. Theon could not remember whether it had once been furnished. Now, however, it was not.

He would survive. If only he curled up in a corner, close to the heated walls, he would not freeze to death. For a moment he wondered what had become of the garments Roose Bolton had provided for him when he had needed Reek to play the part of Theon. 

“Do you not have any travel gear?” Cobb asked, obviously considering the same issue.

“No.”

Cobb scowled. “Stay here. I will find something for you to sleep on, as well as something to eat.”

Once Cobb was gone, Theon slumped against the bare stone wall and slid to the ground. It hurt a lot, due to the strain on his backside and thighs, and he hissed and cursed as he finally hit the ground. What had the king done to him?

 _Fucked you until you blacked out, that’s what._

He wished he had the strength to laugh. _Stannis the Just. Stannis the Righteous. Robert’s pure, virtuous brother, who atoned for the king’s sins with austerity and restraint. Oh, the irony of fate._ It seemed that for Stannis, the road to King’s Landing was paved with sweet corruption. Somehow Theon could not imagine the king taking men to his bed at Dragonstone. 

Surely it had been Theon’s stunning looks hat had led him into temptation.

Theon giggled. A moment later, the giggle became a cough, his throat still tender from Stannis’ bruising grip. 

_I really hope that he has not bedded men before. I would feel sorry for them._

When Cobb returned with a pallet, blankets and a bowl of stew, he found Theon still smiling, but judging from the strange look on his face, he did not understand the jest.


	8. Stannis IV

The man who had once been called the King beyond the Wall was a slumped, broken body on the floor. His face was hidden in the folds of the blanket, and his breath was labored and rattling.

Ser Godry kicked him in the side, lips curled in a derisive smile.

Mance Rayder awoke with a start and a curse on his lips. He sat up as he saw his visitors and tried for a smirk, but it was a poor attempt that convinced neither Stannis nor Rayder himself, seeing as he soon dropped it again and shrugged. “What do you want? Have you come to finish the bastard’s work?”

They had found the wildling king hanging from the outer walls in a cage. He wore the garb of a singer and a bard, and to shield him from the freezing cold he was wrapped in hides of human skin. The forefinger and thumb of his right hand had been cut off.

Stannis jaw had tightened once he realized what it meant. _Ramsay has a new pet, one of Bolton’s surviving men had told him, back in the village. Bit by bit, Lord Ramsay feeds him to his dogs. His women first. Then his fingers._

But Stannis had not come to speak about Ramsay Bolton. 

“Lady Melisandre spared your life. Why?”

Rayder shrugged again. “I wish I knew. She said there was something she needed me for, but would not tell me what it was. Her decision surprised me as well.” He smiled. “Well, maybe a _little_ less.”

Ser Godry scowled. “You will show His Grace more respect, wildling, or...”

“Or what?” Rayder asked. “Will you flay me? Burn me? Do both? You can only threaten a man with death so often before the threat loses weight.”

“What I wish to know,” Stannis said, “Is why you came here.”

Rayder rolled his eyes. “Because she sent me here. She, and Snow.”

When Stannis did not reply at once, the wildling looked at him with curiosity. “Oh. You wonder whether the Lord Commander of the Crows knew I was alive. No, he did not. He was just as astonished to see me walking around and breathing. He had taken me for poor old Rattleshirt the whole time, and wondered why I could best him in combat so easily.”

“They sent you here. To what purpose?”

“To free Snow’s sister.”

“The turncloak freed her.”

Now it was Rayder’s turn to scowl. “Is that what he told you? In truth we made him help us, or else he would have stayed at Bolton’s side, his loyal pet dog.”

“What do you mean, ’we’?”

A shadow crossed Rayder’s face. “My valiant ladies of the wild. Spearwives, the six of them, some of the bravest women I have ever known. They knew what Ramsay did to the women who caught his attention, and still they came with me. They never once wavered nor faltered. All of them died, and truth be told, I should have died with them.”

Rayder shook his head. “Still, I am glad I did not die the same way. Of the six of them, only three received the gift of a quick, merciful death. The others were not so lucky... three were too many even for the bastard’s appetite. He gave them to his men, and once they were done for, he took them to the dungeons, to the cell where his butcher kept the knives. He made me watch as all of them were skinned alive.” 

“I have seen rather a lot of nasty things in my life, beyond the Wall as well as in the Seven Kingdoms. What Bolton did... it bears no comparison.”

“You let them fight for you,” Ser Godry said with disdain. “And lived to tell the tale, in the way of a coward and a weakling. What kind of man hides behind a woman?”

“You know nothing about us, _ser_ , or you would know how the spearwives fight in battle as well as any man or better. As for me, believe me, I would have preferred to die instead of watching the Bastard’s Boys rape them over and over again. When they were all dead, they locked me in that cage and let the skinner flay me, day by day, bit by bit. Death would have been a mercy, a friend to welcome with open arms.”

Mance Rayder laughed, a sound without amusement that turned into a cough. “I will not beg for death now. Nor will I plead for my life.” 

He looked up at Stannis with defiance in his eyes. “If you ask, what do I regret? Nothing, my lord Baratheon. What would I have done differently, had I known the outcome? If Jon Snow had been the Lord Commander when we got to the Wall, maybe he and I could have struck a bargain. Alas he was not. A decent man, that one, but too kind-hearted, and his sworn brothers loathe him for it. He gives food to starving men without making them beg, without breaking their wills. His crows do not like that. They wish to see the free folk cower and grovel at their feet. I would never bow before them.”

He looked at Stannis in the detached manner of a man who knew his fate, and had accepted it. “I would also never serve a man who calls himself a king, who demands I give up my faith and bend the knee before a foreign God and pay taxes for a piece of land he claims to own. A man may call himself many things – lord and king and whatnot – and forget that his blood, spilled on the ground, looks just the same as mine.”

Rayder coughed again, the rattling sound a telling sign of his poor condition. “I regret nothing. If I have to die for it, so be it.”

“Die you will,” Stannis replied. “You are still a traitor. I will not spare your life.”

Ser Godry nodded eagerly. “Shall I give the command to build the pyre, Your Grace?”

Stannis looked at the wildling king. Rayder held his gaze, but said nothing, not even to taunt.

“No,” Stannis said.

Ser Godry drew a sharp breath. “Your Grace, the Lord of Light...”

Stannis turned toward him. “R’hllor will have to find his sacrifices elsewhere. I plan to give up on the burnings.”

“But... Your Grace...”

That was more than enough. Stannis clenched his jaw. “You will keep in mind that you stand before your king, ser. Consider your words carefully and obey. Otherwise you may join the wildling on the block.” 

“The Lady Melisandre...”

Stannis said nothing more, only looked at him, and Ser Godry fell silent. He bowed toward Stannis. “Your Grace.”

“You may leave.”

Ser Godry went without a further word. Stannis was left alone with Mance Rayder. 

“The red priestess will not like that,” the former King beyond the Wall said. 

Stannis snorted. “What is it to you? Be glad that I decided to spare you the stake.”

“Not that I am not grateful for that,” Rayder remarked rather dryly. “But I would prefer to live.”

“Are you pleading for your life after all?”

“Do you hear me plead? No, _Your Grace,_ ” he said with the ghost of a smile. “Give my regard to the Lady Arya, and tell her it was my pleasure.” Rayder made a mockery of a formal bow, still crouching on the floor. “May she remember me with fondness.”

“The Lady Arya is not who you thought her to be. She is a girl named Jeyne Poole, a steward’s daughter, not Lord Stark’s.”

Rayder stared at him, opened his mouth only to close it again, and shook his head. 

“Damn the Gods’ wicked sense of humor. The turncloak fooled me after all,” he stated at last.

Stannis felt a dark satisfaction. “Your good deed, the women’s sacrifice – it was all in vain.”

“No. Not in vain,” Rayder insisted. “Whoever she was, she still deserved to be saved. As for the turncloak... I would not hold it against him.”

Stannis furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“Do you need to ask? I only lost two fingers to the flaying knife. It very nearly broke me. Greyjoy may be a turncloak and a traitor, but he also survived what the bastard did to him, and that is no small deed, I tell you. I do not resent him for keeping the truth to himself.”

“I expect he will appreciate the sentiment,” Stannis replied.

“Now tell me, Your Grace, when will you have my head?”

“Soon, ” Stannis promised him, and left.

~~~~~

“I would offer you wine, but as you would surely believe it poisoned, I will forego the courtesy,” Manderly said and gulped down half of his goblet at once. “You are welcome to help yourself, should you decide otherwise.”

So far, the day had only gotten worse. Manderly proved as annoying as the wildling king had. 

“I take it your men are pleased to be out of the snow, and safe behind Winterfell’s walls. Your capture of the castle was masterfully done, if I may say so,” Manderly continued.

The fat lord was complimenting himself. Stannis glowered at him. “It was your own work, as you very well know. What are you trying to gain with your flattery?”

Manderly shook his head. “I do not wish to anger you, Lord Stannis. I do not doubt you would have taken the castle through a siege sooner rather than later. I only helped things along.”

“I do not like to repeat myself. What do you wish from me, in exchange for your help?”

With a shrug, the fat lord reached for a piece of honeycake, which he dipped in whipped cream before he took a huge bite. “Nothing. What I did, I did for vengeance. The Freys, the Boltons: they deserved their fate. You are known as a just man, Lord Stannis, and I hoped you would make an example of their treacherous lot.” 

“The proper address is ‘Your Grace’, as your very well know.”

“That, my Lord Stannis, remains to be seen.”

“Your fellow lords of the North do not share your reticence.”

“They are most easily impressed by the threat of an army,” Manderly replied blandly. “Although I have to admit, I speak with the freedom of those already doomed.”

“Explain your words.”

“I know you loathe me for the murder of your envoy.”

“So you admit that it was murder,” Stannis said with grim satisfaction.

“It was his life, or my son’s.”

“He was a King’s Hand, a most loyal and valued man.” 

“The Freys knew that as well. I had three of them sitting at my court, sharing my meals, watching me and judging from my behavior whether my son and heir would he allowed to live. I had no other choice. If you truly demand I should have sacrificed my only son for a cause that might be doomed and hopeless for all I knew, I refuse to believe you are a father yourself.” 

Manderly paused, wiping his fat, wobbly hands with a napkin. “Be that as it may. The only way to convince the Freys of my sincerity was to give them the head of your onion lord.”

Stannis could not bear it. “You will not call him that,” he said and barely recognized his own voice, tortured as it was. He swallowed and turned around. If he had to look at Manderly’s face any longer, he would draw his sword and kill him in cold blood.

Manderly put down his goblet. “I apologize,” he said quietly. “Lord Davos, then. Lord Stannis, let me assure you that I only did what I had to do, and that he felt no pain as the sentence was carried out.”

Maybe it was meant as a consolation, but Stannis took little comfort from it. The only thing he felt was a devastating loneliness, and grief. The loss debilitated him, crippled him, as if he was missing a limb. 

“I have no need for your empty words of solace,” Stannis forced out. “What I _demand_ is your allegiance.”

Manderly bowed his head. “I understand. I am afraid that I cannot give you that, my lord, not as long as I am left in ignorance of your intentions.”

“My intentions? You dare question _my_ intentions?” Stannis had to grip for the edge of the table to refrain from reaching over and strangling Manderly. “The Iron Throne is mine by law, and I will not obtain it through begging, or humble myself by bargaining with those who owe me their obedience.” 

“Then, my lord, you are destined to fail.”

“How dare you -”

“You hold the North – for now. You have not enough men to march south. The lords will follow you, but if you only use them for your purpose, with no regard to their needs and sentiments, they will desert you before you even reach the Neck. The war left the North divided. We need someone to heal the wounds, to unite us again. Someone whose lead we can follow, for better or worse, who will not abandon us or treat us like sellswords to be bought with a coin and an empty promise. Can you be that man, Lord Stannis?”

Stannis gritted his teeth. “I am your rightful king.”

“We need no king. We need a liege lord. You are a stormlander, my lord, and your concern is not the North. Unless you can give us that, we might be your reluctant allies, but not your loyal followers.”

“Sheer folly. Where, pray tell, would I find your precious lord? The Starks are gone. The Lady Arya...” 

“Lord Stannis, let us speak clearly and without pretense. The girl is not Arya Stark.” Manderly sounded serious. “We both know, and the other lords, while ready to accept the fraud, were not deluded either.”

Stannis hands clenched into fists, but he could not deny the truth he had learned when Umber voiced the suspicion; it had shown on the lords’ faces that they knew as well.

“What would you have me do?” he asked Manderly. “The Starks are gone, you will not trust a southerner, who should I choose as the Warden of the North?”

“Lord Stark had another son...”

Stannis gave a harsh laugh. “Lord Snow declined the offer. He is, and will stay, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“More’s the pity.” Lord Wyman sighed and reached for another slice of cake. “We need more time. Maybe a solution will present itself in a while.”

That sounded like an excuse, and a badly concealed one at that. “Who do you have in mind, Lord Manderly? Who would you like to rule the North?”

Manderly stopped chewing. “A trueborn Stark of Winterfell,” he said after a little while, mouth still half full of cake. 

Stannis grimaced in disgust. “Believe me, I would like nothing better. At least the Starks have a modicum of decency in their bones. Yet I am afraid that I cannot do miracles, and yours is a foolish man’s dream.”

“You may be right,” Lord Manderly conceded. “I need to think about it, and what needs to be done.”

“Make no mistake,” Stannis warned him. “If perchance you were so ill-informed as to presume that I might reward _your_ house with such a prize...”

“ _Me_?” Manderly opened his eyes wide. “No, my Lord Stannis, most certainly not. And before you twist my words, let me assure you that my son would refuse as well. We have been content to be the Starks’ liege men, and as long as I have anything to say to that, we will remain as such.”

“Well-chosen words, my lord,” Stannis gave back. “I will hold you to them.”

“Do that, Lord Stannis.”

Stannis nodded, still seething inwardly. He had no other choice but to play along for now. He needed Manderly as an ally in the North – what support the fat lord had offered so far, was far more valuable than anything the mountain clans could provide. 

Lord Manderly rose from his table with some effort. Wheezing with the strain, he bowed deeply to Stannis – which came as close to an acknowledgement of his rank as he could obviously hope for.

“I apologize, my lord. The maester awaits me, as I am still recovering from a wound.” With those words, Manderly nodded curtly and waddled through the door.

~~~~~

Stannis went to the solar. For once, no urgent matters warranted his attention, and no one disturbed his stride up and down the room. He counted eight steps from one wall to the other, over and over again.

Manderly had seemed sincere. Honestly sorry, too, for murdering Davos. Of what use was it to exact vengeance for it? As much as Stannis wanted to, it would not bring back his onion knight, but lose him what respect he had earned from the northmen. 

It hurt to know that Davos had suffered such a pointless death. The way Manderly had told it, as if it mattered not that Stannis had lost his oldest friend, his only friend – it was enough to make him want to rage. But a king was not allowed to think that way.

And now Manderly wished for the Starks to return to Winterfell – an impossible task, even if one or both of the two girls could be found, which Stannis sincerely doubted. A daughter of House Stark, while of great value for the northern lords, would not change the fact that Winterfell, once the girl was married, would be ruled by a lord of another house. Women wed and took their husband’s name, bore their husband’s heirs. Arya or Sansa Stark’s children – their highly improbable children – would be no Starks.

While Manderly would hardly be content with a Stark girl, he would settle for a Snow, that much he had made clear.

For a short moment, Stannis gave in to a twisted urge, imagined renewing his offer to the Lord Commander. Snow might agree... _I could keep him by my side. He would rule in Winterfell, but go with me to the South and fight for me._

 _No. It is a delusion, a grave error of judgement I must not allow._

Stannis suddenly felt tired, exhausted and lonely. That was nothing new in itself, but the resentment that accompanied these feelings surprised him. _If Davos were here with me, I could call for him, have him tell me the truth, as much as it annoys me._

Loathe as he was to admit, but even Lady Melisandre’s company, with her ruthless scheming and adamant reverence of R’hllor, would have been preferable to his solitude at the moment.

Even Selyse... he might be able to bear her presence if it meant Shireen as with her, so Stannis could watch her play games with her fool or read the books he gave her, that she studied with a frown on her face and a grave expression.

 _All those who are dear to me are either dead or out of my reach. Mayhaps I should reconsider my claim of the Iron Throne,_ he thought with a rare pang of regret. _It has brought me nothing but grief._

It was of no use. He needed to stay here until Winterfell was really and truly his, with a lord he could trust as the new Warden of the North. _I wonder why I bother at all. What for? A throne I do not want, nobles and commoners that will never love me._

Not for the first time, Stannis closed his eyes in something akin to despair. _I cannot bear it any more,_ he thought, and knew that, despite it all, he would. He would fight for the throne, and die for it or win it to rule as justly and wisely as he was capable to. 

All the pacing did nothing to dispel the haunting thoughts. Stannis thought of joining the lords and knights in the great hall, or visiting the men on the walls. But where he went, people fell silent, guarding their tongues and looking at him sideways with a frown. He was not welcome in the North, even though the lords and their men had no choice but to follow him.

Stannis left his solar. “I will retreat to my chambers,” he let the guards know. “

With fast and determined steps, he strode toward the rooms he had chosen for himself. Wisely he had not moved into the lord’s suite. The rooms awarded to the heir of Winterfell, however, suited him fine. 

He hesitated for the slightest moment in front of the door. Yet indecisiveness did not become a king.

“Call for the turncloak,” he said, and entered his chamber while the guard bowed and hurried to find Cobb and his charge. “Take off his chains before you send him in.” 

~~~~~

Outside it had started snowing again. The room with its big canopy bed was comfortably warm. Stannis went to the fireplace to warm his hands – he could not remember the last time they had not felt frozen.

After a moment he turned and went to pour a goblet of water. During the day his squires carried out that duty, but Stannis liked his privacy and alaways dismissed them once he retreated for the night. 

A knock on the door announced the turncloak’s arrival. 

“Enter,” Stannis bid.

The turncloak knelt down clumsily. All his movements were awkward, due to his disfigured feet, and the chains certainly were no help. Their only purpose was to humiliate him, a visible reminder of his misdeeds and status as a prisoner, and therefore an appeasement of the northerners’ thirst for vengeance. They would not hinder his escape, but they did not need to. If the turncloak tried to run, he would not get far, not with the snow knee-high and nowhere to go for leagues and leagues.

Greyjoy was not stupid, he knew perfectly well that only Stannis’ decree stood between him and death. 

“Rise,” Stannis ordered. Greyjoy did, his eyes still on the floor.

He looked like an ugly old man. Pale and unhealthy skin stretched taut on his face, and his eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. The blue irises flickered unsteadily in a rapid change of expressions, from apathy to fear, sanity to madness, challenge to plea. In these eyes, his feelings were apparent, even if he kept his features blank. Stannis wondered if Greyjoy had always been so easy to read, or if Bolton had stripped him of his ability to pretend. 

Greyjoy was more than half-starved, gaunt to the point of emaciation, worse than most of Stannis’ men. Though most of his front teeth were missing after the maester had done his work, the removal of the splintered, rotting stumps definitely counted as an improvement. Although he would never be handsome again – not with that haunted look in his eyes – he might be able to recover well enough with time. 

Once Stannis’ work in the North was done, he would send Greyjoy to the Wall. _He even might find peace there. Until then... He is mine, to do with as I please._

Stannis had only been with two women in his life. With Selyse, to fulfill his duty and beget an heir, and Melisandre, to gain the power to best Renly, and take Storm’s End. With both women, the act had proven equally unpleasant. At least, something good had come from bedding Selyse: Shireen, his daughter and heiress. But Stannis regretted nothing more than bedding Melisandre, blinded by the promise of power, of a swift rise to the throne. Had he known what it would entail...

_The second time, I knew and did it nevertheless. Renly was already dead. Had I not taken Storm’s End, it would all have been in vain._

_It is not her fault, it is my own._ Stannis looked at the turncloak and thought, _They should call me a kinslayer as well._

The guilt threatened to overcome him. Stannis shook his head. His fingers clenched around the goblet, trying to crush it. He put it down. 

The turncloak stared at him, curious, and Stannis, with a sudden flare of anger, ordered, “Take off your clothes.” 

Greyjoy nodded and started fumbling at his breeches. 

“The rest, too,” Stannis added and took a perverse joy in the way the turncloak froze and started to tremble. He wanted to see. The turncloak belonged to him, and Stannis was entitled to this, surely. 

He watched while Greyjoy undid the laces and stripped. Greyjoy stood with his shoulders hunched, eyes riveted on the ground, trembling like a leaf. His fists were clenched at his side. Stannis ignored his obvious discomfort and looked his fill.

The turncloaks was as thin as a reed. Stannis could count each and every one of his ribs. Whip marks covered his shoulders, and he bore a few nasty burn marks on his chest. 

A thin line of fine black hair trailed from his navel down to his loins, leading to a coarse pelt of black surrounding his manhood. Stannis eyes locked on it and he stared, unabashed. Soft and wrinkled, it appeared tiny, like a small animal in hiding.

Greyjoy’s thighs looked surprisingly strong. His calves were sturdy. He had taken off his boots, too, and Stannis could see his maimed feet. The left one only missed its little toe. On his right foot, only the little toe and the ankle were left. The scars were red and angry-looking.

Stannis stepped aside to get a better view. Something caught his eyes, and he took a closer stand. Greyjoy’s right hip bore another mark. It looked like it had been carved into his skin with a sharp blade, and been kept untreated so it would scar. A letter. R for Ramsay, or Reek. Before Stannis could think twice about it, he leaned forward to touch. Greyjoy flinched even before Stannis’ finger reached the scar, and he made a soft, wounded sound in his throat.

The skin was warm and smooth, and, despite everything, felt inviting to the touch. Stannis traced the scar with his finger. A violent shiver ran through Greyjoy. 

“Cease that,” Stannis told him. “I will not hurt you.”

He pulled his hand back. “Get on the bed.”

The turncloak hurriedly obeyed and got in position on all fours, head bowed between his shoulders.

His still, pale form should not have stirred Stannis’ arousal. But there was something about him – the nakedness, maybe, which made him more vulnerable and more appealing at the same time. Disgusted with himself, Stannis took the jar from the table and went to the bed.

For the first time he could see properly, and watched his own hands as they applied the salve. The tiny hole, surrounded by pink, wrinkled skin, looked obscene. Greyjoy hissed as Stannis pushed in with his thumb, and made a tiny aborted movement, as if he wanted to get away. His hands clutched at the blanket, and he stayed where he was, his breath fast and shallow.

Stannis put a hand on his back. “Stay still,” he commanded and to his surprise, a little of the tension seemed to run out of Greyjoy’s back. The touch felt good, so Stannis stroked downward, along his spine until he felt a give and Greyjoy exhaled with a sigh, relaxing under his hand.

Stannis took another handful of grease and smeared it along his cock. As he pushed in, he kept stroking the turncloak’s back with one hand while the other curled around his hip, to cover the scar, and drew him closer, deeper on his cock. It felt good, to good. Stannis was not used to pleasures like these, the addicting feeling of tightness and heat around him, and the warmth of another body beneath him, without layers of clothing. 

Greyjoy murmured something, but Stannis was already too far gone already to care. He fought for control – he was no green boy, he would not – but his body decided for him and he started to thrust, slowly at first, then faster. The wish to draw it out was unexpected and he could not tell where it came from, but it was of no use. Too much, too soon. Stannis closed his eyes, let the pleasure take him.

He called out a name as the climax hit him.


	9. Theon V

It felt like an icy onrush of water that threatened to pull him under. _No,_ he thought and gasped, _no, this is wrong._

The man on top of him stilled. 

_No,_ Theon thought again, and could not bear it. He twisted and bucked, tried to get free. He whined low in his throat when the weight held him in place. _I am not him. I know my name and this. Is. Not. It._

 _I don’t want to be him,_ he cried, silently, in his head, so they would no punish him for it. _I don’t want to, please, don’t make me learn another name. What is wrong with being Theon? I like being Theon._

_But Theon is a turncloak, a liar, a murderer._

_Nobody wants Theon._

He fought and struggled to escape, drawing ragged breaths, and pleaded with Reek’s squeaking voice. “No. Let me go. Please, let me go.”

Finally he succeeded, though he did not know how. The weight was suddenly gone and he scrambled away and fell from the bed. _No, please. Don’t make me, not again. I cannot be him, I don’t even know how, can you not see that?_

 _I’d rather die._

Theon heaved himself up from the floor and spun around, hands clenched into fists. “My name is _Theon,_ ” he spat with venom. It was not too much to ask; his name was not that difficult to remember. Even he could recall it now, most of the time. “Theon. Theon. You fuck me, you can call me Theon.” 

The king would not do this to the other man, the one he cared for, would not take him like this, use him as a hole and nothing else. Even so, he was Theon, and the king had no right to take that away from him. It was the only thing he had, the thing he clung to with what was left of his sanity. 

“I cannot do this,” he heard himself plead. “Let me die, then, I don’t care. Let me die as Theon, don’t make me... make me...”

Stannis reached for him and Theon recoiled from his hands. Those hands that had been on him, moments ago, had held him, almost lovingly. Of all the things the king had done to him, nothing had felt this cruel. Stannis had lied to him with his touch. Theon should have known. _Too tender. It was not meant for me, the turncloak, it was meant for **him** , and I cannot become him, I cannot, I don’t know how._

“Greyjoy,” the king said with a stern note, yet without the usual bite. “Get a hold on yourself.”

 _No._ Greyjoy was someone else. Asha, maybe, yes, Asha still was a Greyjoy of Pyke where it counted. “Theon.”

The king sighed, weary. “Theon.”

It calmed him down somewhat, to hear it from another’s lips. Theon stood still, chest heaving with his breaths, and stared at Stannis. 

The king was still naked, he noticed a moment later, and so was he. 

Stannis looked almost as gaunt as he did, taller though and stronger. His cock was still partly had, flushed in a deep purple and glistening with grease and semen.

A moment before, Stannis had still been inside of him. Theon swallowed.

“I made a mistake,” Stannis said very grudgingly. “I did not mean for...” He hesitated. His jaw clenched tight. “It was not my intention to pretend.”

“Oh.” Theon should not have felt relief, but there it was. Alright, then. “Who –“

The king averted his gaze. “It matters not.”

 _To you it does,_ Theon thought, and said not.

“Someone I cared for,” the king said, and seemed to speak to himself, as if the words were drawn from him against his will. “A most loyal and honest man, who is lost to me by my own fault.”

“Have you – with him...” 

For a moment it seemed as if the king would refuse to answer.

“No,” he said at last. “He was... not inclined that way.”

An admission that the king in fact was. Not that it needed saying, Theon thought, when Stannis had been fucking him for weeks now. Men who preferred women did not take other men to their bed, not when they could lie with wenches or whores.

“I held him in the highest regard,” the king said. “But I never told him to what amount.”

 _I bet._ If there was one thing Stannis was not, it was generous with words.

“It matters not,” the king repeated his words. “He is gone.” He turned around and started to dress. 

He threw Theon a significant glare. Theon understood, and followed suit. The soreness felt familiar by now, a lingering ache, a silent reminder whenever he moved, wherever he went.

“Go,” Stannis said as soon as Theon had finished lacing his shirt. “You will not speak of this to anyone.” He clearly did not mean the fucking.

“No, Your Grace.” Theon bowed and left.

 _He is as lonely as I,_ he mused. _Maybe even more._

~~~~~

“Theon!” Asha called over the yard and walked with long strides to meet him at the doorstep of the great hall. 

Since their arrival at Winterfell, he had mostly succeeded in avoiding her. The way she looked at him was too much like pity, and reminded him of the past and the decisions he had made that had led him here. The wish to impress his sister, to best her and prove himself to his father as a worthy heir – it seemed so foolish in retrospect, and it hurt to imagine what might have been, had he only realized earlier that his effort was doomed from the start. 

With disdain for himself he remembered how she had visited him at Winterfell, offering him advice.

He had paid a high prize for disregarding it.

Watching Asha, talking to her, hurt for more reasons than one. She was surrounded by her peers, friends and allies of long years, and they followed her gladly.

Still, he could take her concern, even her disdain. What he could not take was her pretense, when the pity lurked in her eyes.

She knew what he did, what he was. The king’s whore. _We are not so different, my sister,_ he thought with scorn. _I spread my legs for the king the same way you spread for Quarl._ Only she did it for pleasure, and Theon to stay alive.

“What do you want?” he said when as she came closer.

She watched him for a moment, trying to asses his mood. Theon knew she thought he was insane, yet tried not to let it show. He avoided her eyes and looked aside. 

“I see the chains are gone.”

Theon shrugged. That his chains had finally been taken off only meant that over the course of the last week, even the last lord, the last serving girl and the last rat in the castle’s stables had been made aware of his new purpose. It certainly helped that hardly a day went by when Stannis did not summon him at night, or in the late afternoon, and on one memorable occasion even shortly after breaking his fast.

“Where is your guard?”

Theon shrugged again. Cobb or his squire Henley were never far, but as it was their task to keep track of him, not the other way around, he seldom bothered to look. Sometimes Cobb told him to accompany him while he went about his duty, but he did not like to be watched and became nervous when Theon lurked in the shadows.

“Have you heard what news the raven brought from White Harbor?”

As a matter of fact, Theon had not known of a bird’s arrival before she told him. “No.”

“I wonder what it is. I wonder whether the king will give Manderly the letter before or after he has read it himself?”

Theon considered this. “Before,” he said softly. “His Grace will want to watch him while he reads.”

“Cunning,” his sister said in a tone of appreciation and changed the topic once it became clear Theon had nothing else to add. “Brother, I talked to Maester Pylos on your behalf.”

Theon frowned, but said nothing. He was in no position to show his anger, let alone forbid her anything.

“He told me that he would make you teeth, if you asked and paid for it.”

Theon sneered at her, exposing his gap-toothed jaw with intent.

She tried hard to hide her disgust, but he could tell from the way her lips thinned that she had little approval for his behaviour.

“You could have told me. I may be a captive here, but I still have enough gold with me to pay the prize.”

What for? Now that the splintered teeth were gone, Theon could eat without major discomfort. He still had most of his molars to help him chew and used his hands to shred the bread. A good knife was cheaper than gold teeth and would serve him just as well to chop the meat. 

He wanted to give her a smile, but somehow it transformed and twisted until it was more of a convulsive grin. “The king likes me without teeth.”

Stannis had not said so, but it seemed plausible. In case the king decided he wanted to use his mouth, teeth would not be appreciated.

Asha paled, which spoke volumes of her lively imagination – that, and her expertise on bed lore. 

“No,” she said. “I will talk to him. He cannot treat you that way.”

Theon cocked his head to the side. “He cannot?” he asked curiously. “Whyever not?”

“You may be his prisoner, but you are of noble birth, a prince of the Iron Isles.”

Theon did not bother to correct her. 

“I will have those teeth made for you, brother, and you better believe me,” Asha promised him before she turned around and stormed off.

Theon almost smiled.

~~~~~

He was in the dungeons in the Dreadfort, and Skinner stood in front of him. Reek was chained to the ceiling, arms tied over his head, feet just grazing the floor so he had to stand on his tiptoes, which only worked so far with his maimed, hurting feet. 

Someone was behind him, holding him, humming softly in his ear. Ramsay. 

“Who are you? Who do you belong to?

Reek wanted to reply and found that he could not make a sound. His throat worked in panic as he tried to answer the question and failed. Skinner came at him with his knife. 

“Turncloak,” Ramsay whispered in his ear, and that was wrong, Ramsay never called him that.

Someone shook his shoulder, and Theon awoke with a gasp, drenched in cold sweat.

“Finally,” someone grunted, leaning over him with a torch in the other hand. “Hurry up, turncloak. The king awaits you.”

“At this hour?” Ser Harlys’ voice inquired. He stood on the doorstep of the connecting door.

The guard straightened his back and shrugged. “I don’t question His Grace’s orders.”

“Let me have a look at you,” Cobb demanded and came closer. He was in his shift, barefoot, and armed with a longsword. 

The guard muttered something unintelligible and stood still for the inspection

Cobb stared at him for a moment. “All right. Henley, go with him.”

The squire appeared from behind the door, clad in breeches and shirt. He yawned. “Yes, ser.”

The guard scowled. “Hurry.”

The way to the king’s chambers was not far. Despite the cold, Theon forewent his cloak and only slipped into his boots without tightening the laces. 

“What hour is it?” Henley asked as they went. 

“Past midnight,” the guard answered surly. Nothing more was said until they arrived at the door.

~~~~~

The king was fully dressed. He stood at the open window and stared outside, hands grasping the window sill. 

An untouched dinner tray stood on the table. The fire had almost burned down. The room was icy-cold, and for a moment, as Stannis refused to move and Theon could not see his breath, it seemed like he had frozen and become a statue of ice and stone.

Then, slowly, Stannis turned his head. 

He looked as if he had aged ten years. It had been a day and a half since Theon had last seen him, and Stannis had been his usual, sullen self. Now he looked far away in thought, hollowed out, beyond exhaustion. He stared at Theon as if he saw him for the first time. No orders came, and Theon wondered whether the king expected him to act on his own, but he could not tell what Stannis wanted: on the bed, on all fours like a bitch, or standing and bent over the table. 

He tried to find a comfortable stance – not an easy task these days, even less when he was, at the same time, tired and worried.

“I had almost forgotten I had sent for you,” Stannis said. 

It sounded so unlike Stannis, indecisive and doubtful, and at the same time so ridiculous, since there was only one thing Stannis wanted him for. Theon could not suppress a tiny snort.

The king’s expression hardened. “What was that?”

Theon did not reply. He would get on the bed, he decided, unless Stannis told him otherwise. More often than not these days, Stannis told him to take off all his clothes, so he did that now, too, and was aware of the king’s gaze on him. It made his skin crawl, but he could blame the cold for that, too.

“Get on the bed and wait for me,” the king said. “Prepare yourself.” 

That was still new, and Theon hated it. Hated the smell of the salve, and the way his own fingers felt in his ass when he pushed them in and wiped them on his own leg afterward, so he did not soil the king’s sheets. He clenched his teeth and did as he was told. 

A cold draft breezed through the room. Theon’s remaining teeth began to chatter. 

Stannis ignored him. He looked into the winter night again as if he could see through darkness and sky and snow to the south-west. 

“Have you ever been to the eastern shore, turncloak?”

Theon stopped with his preparations. The question took him by surprise; the king seldom talked to him except to order him around. 

“No.” 

“No, _Your Grace,_ ” Stannis corrected him.

Past midnight, and he still insisted on formalities. Theon gave a little disbelieving, breathless laugh. “Are you addressing me as your queen?”

That, insolent as it was – outrageous even – made the king laugh, a short, harsh sound. “Your cheek, boy.”

“I am no boy.” He was on all fours, with his ass wet and ready, shivering in the cold, yet somehow he felt more sure of himself than he had in a long time, and dared to hold the king’s glare for longer than usual.

Stannis did not contradict him, but asked, as if he was really curious, “What is your age?”

Theon had not thought about that in a long time and needed a moment to think it over. “Two-and-twenty,” he said at last.

“I was nine-and-ten when I held Storm’s End for Robert and nearly starved to death. At twenty, I took Dragonstone. That was sixteen years ago.”

Theon could not remember much of Robert’s rebellion. He had only been a child. He had been a child until the day they gave him to Lord Eddard as a ward.

“I never shared my brother’s appreciation for it. The Targaryens built a great castle, there is no denying that, but the lands are poor, and to me it was a constant reminder of Robert’s slight.”

Stannis’ hand gripped the window-sill so tight it had to be painful. “Now I find myself regretting my earlier pettiness. The loss pains me more than I thought it would. A foolish notion, without a doubt.”

“My men still hold Storm’s End, and the castle will not be taken by force as easily. But Dragonstone... Dragonstone was _mine._ Sometimes I wonder: if the gods do exist, what have I done to anger them so much? What I want, I cannot have, what I can have, I do not want. And yet... I realize when it is already too late that what I had was dearer to me than I thought. Curious.”

So Dragonstone had fallen, Theon thought numbly. He wondered what it meant, for Stannis and the war, but could not come up with any ideas. It was too cold. His teeth chattered louder.

Stannis brow furrowed. Then he seemed to notice what he was doing, and closed the window. He drew the curtains and turned around. 

The king stripped methodically and swiftly. His cock was still soft as he went to the bed. That was not unusual, and Theon closed his eyes, expecting the king to stroke himself to hardness and fuck him.

“Lie down.”

For a moment, Theon did not understand. Only Stannis’ hand on his back, applying firm pressure, made it clear, and he slowly let himself slide forward until he lay on his stomach. The room was so chilled that even the contact to the thick furs below made him shiver.

“What is it?” Stannis asked. 

“Cold,” Theon forced out. 

“I know,” Stannis murmured. He drew a blanket over himself before he leaned over Theon and put his hands on his shoulders, curling his fingers around the roundness where his upper arms began. The king’s hands were just as cold as anything else in the room, but where they rested on Theon’s skin, a tingling sensations began to spread through him. It happened more often now that Stannis’ touch, fleetingly as it was, proved pleasurable enough to make him forget what was about to come. 

He expected that Stannis would pull him up on his knees again, but instead the king lowered himself onto Theon, covering him from head to feet, skin on skin. 

For a moment Theon forgot to breathe. _Gods..._ Stannis hands ran over his arms, pulling them straight over his head, and stopped at his wrists. He tightened his hold on them and pressed them down to the bed. His breath was hot on Theon’s neck. Theon bit his lip, inhaled and let the air out in little puffs. Stannis moved on top of him, a slow sliding motion, and his cock – more than half-hard now – started to glide between Theon’s buttocks. Theon spread his legs a little, the adjustment almost unconscious, and felt the head of the king’s cock catch at his hole. 

Stannis pushed inside, and Theon heaved a breath almost like a sob. He arched against Stannis – he wanted more heat, more contact, and despite the pain and humiliation that came along with the fucking, the sensation felt better than it should have. 

The position did not allow for the hard, punishing pace Stannis liked so much, but it did not seem to matter tonight. Stannis fucked him slowly, pushing deep without battering into him, and for the first time, Theon felt himself relax into the thrusts. He could not move much, and somehow this position, pinned under Stannis’s weight and speared on his cock, relieved him of the need to do anything. Stannis owned him in this moment, owned his body so completely that Theon did not need to brace himself, or struggle to keep his ass in the air. He just lay there and took it, enjoyed it even: the heat, the slow slide of a muscled, hairy chest on his back. He turned his head to the side so he could breathe easier, and closed his eyes.

Stannis whispered something unintelligible. His hands slid to Theon’s forearms, yet he applied no pressure, just held on, callused thumbs caressing the soft skin. He pressed his lips to Theon’s neck, just below his ear, and Theon started to shiver for a whole different reason. It was all too much and, at the same time, not enough, and he gave a sigh, almost a moan. 

Stannis’ grip tightened, and he thrust one last time and stilled, with a quiet almost-groan, and bit down softy on the tendons of Theon’s neck, tongue hot and wet on his skin.

A tremor ran through Theon’s body, and he breathed in deeply with a strange kind of disappointment. He stayed motionless beneath the king’s heavy weight. Stannis would tell him to go soon, and Theon felt no need to preempt his orders. He shifted and squirmed to make more room for himself to breathe, careful not do dislodge Stannis completely. He winced, but made no sound as the king’s cock slid out.

Stannis did not move, had in fact become dead weight on top of him, his breath gone gradually heavier. Theon reached for the blanket to pull it closer around them. Between one breath and the next, cocooned in warmth and held in place by the king’s bulk, he fell asleep.

~~~~

His hands were bound behind his back as he knelt on a cold stone floor in a sea of blood. Not his own. Ramsay crouched behind him. His hand in Theon’s hair held him in place, made him look.  
The body hanging from the ceiling was a nebulous shape, indistinct, and Theon could not tell who she was. Had been. 

He was naked and felt Ramsay’s cock, slippery with her blood, rubbing along his hip, grazing the healing skin. 

“You are not a man,” he sing-songed in Theon’s ear. “Your cock never got hard, not even when she begged and moaned. My pretty whore.”

Ramsay’s fingers clenched in his hair and pulled his head back. “Not a man,” he said and laughed. “Just my Reek. You are lucky that you are so well-behaved these days. I can’t have you panting after my whores. But you wouldn’t, would you? Because you are not a man. Say it. Tell me who you are.”

“I am your Reek,” Theon whispered.

“Say it.”

“I am no man.”

“Because if you were a man, your cock would stir when you saw my pretty whores, and I would have to flay it.” Ramsay’s other hand, still holding a knife, went to Theon’s breeches and pushed the dull edge of the blade against his groin. Theon jerked, and Ramsay hummed softly in his ear. 

“Please, my lord,” Reek sobbed and begged. “Please, I am good, I am no man, please, I would never look at them...” 

Ramsay stepped in front of him, smiling. “Clean me up.”

And Reek opened his mouth for Ramsay’s cock, crying. 

~~~~~

Theon was awoken for the second time that night by a hand on his shoulder. He felt tears staining his face, and the echo of the quiet, desperate noises he had made still hung in the air.

The king lay on his side, staring at Theon in the near darkness of the room. The fire had died down, embers still glowing faintly, just so that Theon could recognize Stannis’ features, but not his expression. 

Stannis shook his head and let go of Theon’s arm. 

Theon curled in on himself. His fingers went to his own mouth, almost expecting them to come back smeared wet with blood and semen.

“Go back to sleep,” the king ordered gruffly. 

It was no easy command to obey. Theon’s rest was fitful in the best of nights. After nightmares like these, sleep mostly remained elusive.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to stop shaking.

Stannis sighed. “You are a menace, turncloak. Come here.”

Theon did not understand. Stannis roughly pulled him closer, until Theon’s head was resting on his chest, and the king lay a hand on his back between his shoulderblades. “There. Is that better?”

Theon took a tentative breath and noted that, yes, it was. He nodded.

“Good. Now sleep.”

Theon did, and only woke up again in the morning, when the king was already gone.


	10. Stannis V

“I am sorry, Your Grace, we have heard nothing from the Wall,” Ser Richard said.

Stannis scowled. “I sent three ravens. What has happened to those? Perhaps Snow has come to the decision that he is too important to answer my letters?”

He received no reply, but he had not expected one. He addressed Ser Godry next. “Have Ser Corliss prepare to ride for the Wall with a force of thirty men. He is to report to me on the morrow before they head out.” 

“As Your Grace commands.”

“Ser Clayton. How are your scouts faring?” 

“They met no obstacles, Your Grace,” Clayton Suggs reported. “The roads are devoid of men, but we set up guards to observe all possible paths and roads to the castle.”

Stannis snorted. “All of them? Impressive. You do not know the terrain, neither do your men. I need you to make sure that no enemies will catch us unaware. Talk to Umber, talk to those in service of the Boltons, hunters and scouts. Better yet, talk to the turncloak. He knows the surroundings better than most, I should think.”

Ser Clayton’s face contorted with disgust. “I’d rather take the risk than ask the traitor for a favor, Your Grace.”

Stannis raised his eyebrows. “Your brashness surprises me. The risk, however, is not yours to bear.  
You _will_ talk to him, and you will do it as is appropriate for one noble toward another. Unless you would rather I relieve you of your duties?” he added coolly and saw Ser Clayton wince.

“If Your Grace says so.”

“I say so. You may go, ser.”

Suggs left the room; Ser Godry and Maester Pylos remained. 

“Ser Godry, is everything prepared for the execution?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.” Ser Godry kept his expression neutral, only his slightly narrowed eyes gave away how he felt about that matter. With Melisandre’s rise to power, he had risen in rank, too, and had no wish to find himself replaced by one of the king’s men, or, worse for the likes of him, one of his own underlings. He would not object again to Stannis’ decision to stop the burnings – not openly, at least. 

“Have the men assemble in the yard an hour from now. Tell the wildling what to expect and let him have one last meal.”

Ser Godry bowed and went. Maester Pylos, the only one remaining, cleared his throat. “If I may address another topic with Your Grace...”

“Out with it.”

“The turncloak, Your Grace.” 

Stannis stiffened. “What about him?”

“His sister approached me this morning. She offered me payment to carve a set of teeth for him, and reminded me of my duties to serve and aid – in a very eloquent manner, may I add – and wanted me to talk to you on her brother’s behalf.”

Stannis regarded him with a frown. “I fail to understand the problem.”

Maester Pylos coughed. “For reasons unexplained, Lady Asha seemed to assume that you would refuse her request.”

“To have teeth made for her brother? Why would she think so?” Stannis was dismayed. 

“I take it that Your Grace would not object, were I to help her?”

“As long as she pays for it, most certainly not.”

The master bowed his head. “I will tell her; maybe she will leave me be from now on.”

Stannis shook his head. “I suppose it is too much to ask for an explanation.”

Maester Pylos blushed. It was a most peculiar notion, and one Stannis could not leave alone.

“What is it?”

The maester squirmed a little in his chair. “She – the Lady Asha – appeared quite convinced you _preferred_ her brother that way.”

Once Stannis had registered the meaning, he very nearly blushed. “I see.” 

“Your Grace – if I may be frank –”

“Within limits, Maester Pylos,” Stannis warned him. There were only very few people he granted permission to speak freely to him, and Maester Pylos, while he appreciated the maester’s competence, was not usually one of them.

“There is talk,” the maester said.

“For sure,” Stannis agreed. “There is always talk. It would be most remarkable if there was none.”  
Stannis had overheard enough of it over the years to know that it was never flattering for him, no matter what he did. He could imagine what they whispered about him now, about what he did with the turncloak; he did not need to have it said to his face

“Rumors amongst the men – they wonder –”

Stannis glared at him darkly, and the maester fell silent.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” he said after a moment and averted his gaze. “It was not my place to interfere.”

“I agree,” Stannis said. “See that it does not occur again. As long as there is no talk of mutiny, I wish not to hear what men have to say about me, or my preferences. Is there anything else?”

“No, sire.” The maester bowed and Stannis sent him off, staying alone with his thoughts.

~~~~~ 

They had put up the block on the courtyard. While he waited surrounded by his knights, Stannis thought that this execution would serve a dual purpose: to dispense justice, and to assert his authority with the northern lords. They would respect him more if he respected their customs. While it would not sit well with most of his knights – all those swayed by Melisandre – the northmen would welcome his discard of the pyres.

Mance Rayder did not resist as they brought him forth. He went to his knees in front of the block on his own. When Stannis asked him whether he had a last request to make, he shook his head and held his gaze until Ser Richard made him bow his head.

Stannis raised Lightbringer and carried out the sentence.

Blood stained the snow pink, and the wildling king’s head rolled toward Manderly, who took a careful step back. He nodded at Stannis with a thoughtful expression on his face. 

Stannis gave Lightbringer to Horpe, who cleaned the blade himself before returning it to the great hall. 

One of the other knights lifted Rayder’s head by the hair. “What shall be done with it?”

Stannis furrowed his brow. As much as he wanted to display the head as a sign for Lady Melisandre and her followers, it seemed of poor taste. She was not here, and no benefit would come from it. Rayder had died bravely. He would have his dignity in death.

“Burn it with his body,” Stannis ordered and turned away to return to the solar.

A commotion at the eastern gate caught his attention.

Two men on horses, belonging to Suggs’ squad of rangers, rode into the yard. Ser Clayton went to meet them, and after some hastily exchanged words, he turned around and his gaze sought out Stannis’ to signal a wordless message. 

Stannis nodded at him and waited while the men dismounted and came to him, following Ser Clayton.

“Your Grace.” Ser Clayton took a knee. “My men report a posse of riders coming down the kingsroad from the north. They ride under the banner of the crowned stag within a fiery heart.”

One of the two men knelt before Stannis. “They come with sleds and litters, Your Grace. They make no attempt to hide, and move slowly, with an advance party of three knights wearing with the crests of Grandison, Redpool and Follard. We could not see who else was part of the group, but...”

“But?”

“There was a wolf, Your Grace. A huge, white wolf with red eyes. Lord Commander Snow’s direwolf.”


	11. Jon I

Jon only remembered bits and pieces. 

Pain was outweighing everything else, and apart from short impressions that had the quality of fever dreams and nightmares, what he saw and heard blended together in a gray fog that shielded him from reality. He remembered Ghost’s blood-red eyes, and Lady Melisandre’s. Liquid fire running through him, chasing away the numbness and replacing it with pain unlike anything he had ever felt before. Yelling and shouting, the sound of swords clashing, steel on steel. Somebody calling his name. _Lord Snow._

Then there were softly spoken words, and the pain lessened and became bearable enough to let him sleep. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw the sky above and felt the jogging progress of a stretcher and wondered where he was and what had happened. His confusion grew as he remembered – Hardin’s tower, the giant, the knives.

Bowen Marsh did not do things by half. Why was he still alive? 

“Ghost?” he whispered, knowing by instinct that the direwolf was nearby. A moment later Ghost was at his side and his thick head appeared at the edge of the stretcher, red eyes wide and joyful. Jon could imagine the wagging of his tail. Ghost nudged his arm once.

A man’s voice uttered a command, and the stretcher’s progress came to a halt. 

A rider caught up to the stretcher, and Lady Melisandre, a bright red beacon in the surrounding world of grey and white, leaned to the side to look at him. “You are awake at last, Jon Snow,” she stated the obvious. “I began to worry.”

Jon wet his dry, chapped lips. He petted Ghost’s large ear. The direwolf licked his hand, wetting the leather of his gloves. 

“What happened?”

“My vision came true, Lord Snow.” 

There was an air of resentment about her, and Jon thought that he could not truly blame her for that. 

“I remember the ambush,” he replied.

“You were stabbed six times,” she said. “Yet you did not die. When I found you, you were still breathing, and bleeding. Be grateful, Jon Snow, for R’hllor’s mercy. I was able to heal your wounds, but at great a cost. It took a lot of strength from me.”

While he was ready to believe she spoke the truth, she left too many questions unanswered. “How did you find me, my lady?” Would she claim it had been her visions?

Jon tried to sit up and found himself bound to the stretcher with ropes. His arms were free, but his chest and legs were tied securely. He tugged at the bindings, which made the red priestess furrow her brow. “Stay calm if you please, Lord Snow, we will unbind you shortly. We needed to keep you from falling off, as not to hinder our journey.” 

“How did you find me?” Jon repeated. He had been at Hardin’s tower when his men attacked him, and the queen’s knights had gone to report to Selyse.

Melisandre’s expression betrayed little of her feelings. “It appears that of the men who saw you stabbed, some were loyal to you. They released your direwolf and called to others of your followers for help. The turmoil reached us at the King’s Tower, and the knights and I came to your help. It was quite the uproar: men fighting against each other, your free folk against your sworn brothers, while other wildlings decided to abandon your cause as swiftly as they had been to declare for you, since they believed you dead, and went off with an unknown destination. Most of your brothers sided with Marsh, and the Night Watch soon gained the upper hand over those still fighting. Once they prevailed, they gave the queen and her retinue one day to leave the Wall, claiming that the Night Watch would return to true neutrality.”

“I take it that they did not know I was still alive,” Jon said flatly, unable to conceal the bitterness.

“While the men were still fighting, some of your wildlings and Stannis’ knights protected me so I could tend to your wounds. R’hllor gave me the strength to heal them, grievous as they were, but I could not restore your force of life immediately - and, in fact, preferred not to. Had Marsh and his brothers had reason to believe your were still alive, they would not have allowed us to take you with us. But by God’s grace, I accomplished to conceal your breaths, and they believed they saw a corpse.”

“What happened then?”

“They allowed us to leave Castle Black unharmed, and the wildlings as well.”

“Did they send them back beyond the Wall?”

“I do not believe so, but I cannot be sure, as they oversaw our departure with great scrutiny and I had no chance to talk to any of the wildlings. I believe that Giantsbane still meant to head out for Hardhome, but even that, I cannot say with certainty.”

“Where are we?” Jon inquired.

“About sixty leagues from the Wall, heading south on the kingsroad.”

Jon all but forgot about the ties and tried to sit up again. “Heading for Winterfell? Despite the letter?”

“We have no other choice, Lord Snow. The brothers would not allow us to head back to Eastwatch and repealed your promise of giving the Nightfort to Stannis. There is nowhere else to go, but we also have reason to believe that Ramsay’s letter is, in fact, at least partly untrue.”

“Why is that?”

“Only two days before that letter arrived, another raven was sent by the king, with a message addressed only to Queen Selyse and I. His Grace told us he had gained victory in a battle fought not far from Winterfell, and that a deceit would hopefully lead to Ramsay believing him dead. The letter also said that he hoped to take Winterfell soon and swiftly, without great losses.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Jon accused.

“I would have, had there been opportunity, Lord Snow. The king, however, had told us not to share the knowledge, in case there were traitors amongst your men. And may I remind you of our last conversation, Lord Snow? You avoided me whenever you could, and refused to trust my words, hasty to dismiss my counsel and the wisdom I gain through the flames.”

Now she sounded almost petulant. She shook her head, and the waves of red hair fell over her shoulders. “Had you told me about Ramsay’s letter first, as you should have, instead of taking it to the wildlings, I would have...”

Savage fury tore through Jon, and Ghost started to growl. “How generous,” he said through gritted teeth. “You mean you were waiting for me to come and ask for your counsel.” 

_As if I were a dog begging for scraps of meat, while she only waited for an opportunity to put a collar on me and attach a leash to it._

“I offered you my advice freely enough,” she said. “Yet you would not listen.” _Now look where it got you,_ she did not say, and Jon was not sure what he would have done if she had.

There was no doubt that she had told him the truth about what had happened, and that he was in debt to her since she had saved his life. 

“Why did you save me?” he asked rather bluntly.

“The Lord of Light still has a use for you, Jon Snow,” she told him. “It was not me who saved you; it was R’hllor, and what he shall demand of you, I do not yet know.”

Which meant that whenever she needed a favor of him, she would remind him of it.

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “What else did you learn from Stannis’ letter?”

“The Bravoosi banker reached him, and was sent back with Ser Justin Massey. What will be of more interest to you, though, is that your sister was freed from Winterfell, and sent to Stannis. She will also come with Massey.”

Jon took a deep breath. That sounded almost to good to be true. “What about Rayder?”

She sighed. “That part of Ramsay’s letter might well be true, I am afraid. His Grace wrote nothing about the wildling king, and I am sure that he would not have concealed his anger, had he learned of Mance’s survival.”

 _Oh, yes,_ Jon thought with a strange kind of amusement. _She will have a lot of explaining to do._

Instead of saying so, he lifted his hands. “Will you untie me?”

“Of course, Lord Snow.” She gestured for a man to come with a sharp knife. “You may ride by yourself when your are well enough – we have enough horses to spare – but for now, please stay on the stretcher, and take a little more time to recover. 

While he was cut loose, Jon thought of what had happened to him. It hurt to know that he had failed. _They stabbed me. Not to get rid of a Lord Commander they did not approve of, but to save the Night’s Watch. Have I erred so? I only tried to do what was right. They did not see it that way, they thought I tried to destroy them._

_Were they wrong? What about the wildlings who relied on me, what will happen to them now? And those brothers who were loyal to me?_ He could not believe that all of his men, Dolourus Edd, Satin, all those who had voted for him, had betrayed him as well. _I failed them, I failed all of them. Gods, what have I done?_ he thought numbly.

In sudden despair he closed his eyes. The memory, a blade sinking deep into his flesh, made him shudder. _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ he heard Ygritte’s voice in his head, and it had never felt more true.

~~~~~

When the camp had been set up for the night, Jon argued with Lady Melisandre and Queen Selyse. “I cannot leave them to their fate,” Jon said. “I need to go back, find out what happened to the wildlings, and try to convince my brothers to negotiate.” Maybe, if he had taken more time to listen to their arguments, and explain himself... obviously it had been a mistake to rely only on his authority alone, but if he went back and took the time to reason with them, would they not reconsider? 

“You must not, Lord Snow,” Lady Melisandre said with determination. “The wildlings are not your responsibility, neither are the brothers; not anymore.”

“I am the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“No,” she interrupted him. “ _Not anymore._ They meant for you to die, and without me to prevent it, they would have prevailed. Your wildlings abandoned you, as did your supporters in the amongst your brothers, once they believed you dead. You told us often enough that the free folk choose their own leaders. They will do that now as well and be scattered to the four winds. How do you mean to find them and unite them, one man alone without an army, without the authority of a Lord Commander, without the promise of food and shelter?”

Her words cut deep, but she went on without mercy. “Even so, what would you do once you had their forces rejoined? Head for Castle Black again, treat with your sworn brothers as the leader of a wildling army? Take Castle Black by force and destroy the Night’s Watch? No, Lord Snow, I think not. Convince your sworn brothers to reconsider? They knew your arguments, they knew about the Others and the wights as well as you did, and still decided to betray you. By what means could you hope to change their mind now that you stand truly alone? Pray tell, Lord Snow.”

“I am sworn to the Night’s Watch,” he objected. “I cannot betray my vows by going with you. My place is at the Wall.” 

“What good could you possibly do there?” she asked. “Except than die a futile death? No, Lord Snow. You are not free to do that, not after it was I who saved your life.”

She showed her true face as Jon had known she would. It had not taken her long to stop talking of R’hllor’s mercy and claim the merit for herself. Of course she would declare, if asked, that it was only her red god’s will. How could Jon deny that, after she had foreseen the attack? But as much as he wanted to, Jon could not argue her point. He could not return to the Wall in his position. 

Queen Selyse huffed. “We will go and rejoin with Stannis. Once Winterfell is taken, the North will reunite under your sister as a liege lady. We will find her a suitable husband before we return to the Wall, to deal with the traitors as warranted. Stannis will make the wildlings swear fealty, as you should have, Lord Snow, and give you back the Wall.”

“The Wall is not his to give,” Jon said through gritted teeth. “The Night’s Watch chooses the Lord Commander, not the king.”

“Oh, but there your are mistaken, Lord Snow,” Selyse said. “Clearly the Night’s Watch has forfeited that privilege by rebelling against their own rightful leader. The brothers cannot be allowed to get away with such betrayal.”

There was no use in arguing with the queen, Jon knew that, yet it took a considerable amount of will power to refrain from doing so anyway. He apologized and took his leave. Ser Grandison, who commanded the queen’s party, assigned him a horse and a tent to sleep in. It took a while to arrange things. Once everything was settled, Jon made his way to the camp fire with Ghost at his side. He met Alys Karstark, who she smiled at him. “Lord Snow. You look quite well.”

Jon had nearly forgotten that he had been stabbed. He touched the scar on his throat as he bowed to her. “I thank you, my lady.” She looked good as well, considering the exhaustive journey the queen’s party had undertaken during the last three days. “Marriage appears to become you.”

“One could say that,” she agreed and smiled.

“I take it that your husband is here as well?”

“Indeed he is. Kingsblood’s daughters too.”

They stood at each other’s side for a moment, surveying the orderly set-up camp with the queen’s tent in the center and the banners behind it. 

“I am sorry, my lord,” Alys Karstark – no, not _Karstark,_ Jon corrected himself, _Thenn_ , said. “For what happened at the Wall. After all you did for your men, and the free folk...”

It was still hard to grasp – only half a day had passed since he had woken up. Jon shrugged. “I knew I was driving my brothers further than they wanted to go,” he admitted. 

Maybe they had been right to stab him. _I took my vows and meant to obey them, I even went so far as to deny my kinship to Arya, but in my heart I still felt as a Stark, and they knew that. I honored my word, but not without regret, and while most of the brothers felt that their loyalty belonged to the Watch, and the Watch alone, I still felt obligated to the people, northmen and free folk alike, and even more so to my family._ He had always felt conflicted, and although he had tried hard to conceal it even from himself, in the end he had fooled nobody, and his decision to head for Winterfell had only made that obvious. _Kill the boy._ He thought that Marsh and his followers had succeeded in that, far more efficiently than he himself. 

He said nothing of that aloud, instead he smiled at Alys. “I only wonder, what direction will they choose now that I am gone?”

He hoped that Marsh would not undo all he had put into motion. _I hope he does not forget where the real enemy stands._

Alys returned his smile thoughtfully and nodded while she petted Ghost’s fur. “You need to free yourself of that burden. One man cannot bear the responsibility for all others, try as he might.”

 _I am responsible for so many things. I will never be free of this burden,_ he thought.

“We can only hope that the king will gain victory over the Boltons,” Alys said. “Were Stannis to reclaim Winterfell for your sister, she could treat with the free folk and make them part of the North. Then even your black brothers might concede they have the right to stay south of the Wall.”

_They might. But without me to lead them. And by then it might be too late. Who knows how many will have starved, how many will be lost to war and winter?_

There was nothing he could do. The realisation hurt Jon to the core. _Even if I return to the Wall at Stannis’ side, and can keep him from burning them all as traitors, they will never accept me back. I truly am a man without brothers now._


	12. Theon VI

In front of the door to the great keep the king waited, stone-faced, while the queen’s party arrived in the courtyard. Their exhausted, scraggy horses were led away by stable hands and squires, and their baggage tended to likewise by servants. Maester Pylos, a satchel in hand, hurried toward the queen’s litter that had been put down right in front of the great hall. Theon could not help but notice that the king did not move, just kept standing at the stairs, showing no intention of greeting his lady wife. 

A violent cough in a woman’s voice was heard from within the thick curtains of the litter when the maester climbed in. Moments later a little girl emerged from it, dressed in thick furs with a hood drawn over her face. She looked around, lifting her head as she saw Stannis. Her lips curved into a smile. She approached, awkward in her winter gear. The hood fell back from her face as she bowed to the king. 

“Your Grace; my Lord Father.”

“Shireen,” Stannis said, and Theon watched his features soften just a little. 

The girl stood there and looked up at her father. She bit her lip, insecure. Stannis stood still as well, his head raised and his brow furrowed, and Theon could not help but think of Eddard Stark and his children, how dearly he had loved them, and how obvious his affection had been. 

_Take her in your arms, lift her up. Kiss her brow and then spin her around,_ he thought, directed at Stannis, but the king, of course, did no such a thing. 

Stannis’ daughter was small for her age – Theon had heard that she was one-and-ten  
– and slender. While blessed with her father’s deep blue eyes, she had also inherited his strong jaw, none too flattering on a woman. From her demeanor it became clear she had nothing of Stannis’ strong will. She wilted visibly as the king’s unwavering gaze rested on her.

“I hope you are well, father,” she said, voince thin.

Stannis nodded. “That I am. I take it your journey went undisturbed?”

“Yes, father, but at the Wall, the black brothers rebelled against Lord Commander Snow. It was quite terrible,” she explained with an earnest nod.

Theon’s attention was caught by a stretcher that was put down in safe distance to the litter. Covered by a sole blanket, a human shape was visible, lying in state.

The queen’s retinue had suffered losses along the way. 

Somehow Theon already knew without being told. He went to the stretcher and knelt down beside it. As he lifted the cloth with some effort, since it was stiff and frozen, Jeyne’s dark curls became visible. Her eyes were closed, but her face was the same, only paler now, grazed by the cold of death and winter. 

_Jeyne, Jeyne it rhymes with vain,_ Theon thought and wanted to cry. Had she perished from the cold? 

A woman dismounted in front of the king. Theon’s attention was caught by her and he watched numbly as she shed her fur coat. She was dressed in red silken gowns and seemed not to suffer from the cold. She stepped up to Stannis and curtsied.

“Your Grace,” she said in a bright, musical voice, before she laid her hand on Shireen’s shoulder. “Child, your mother has need of you.”

The obvious dismissal made Shireen bow her head and obey without a protest. The girl climbed back into the litter.

“What happened?” Stannis asked. His voice was flat, expressionless, without even the hint of warmth it had held when he talked to his daughter.

“The journey in itself went smoothly,” the red woman said. “But the queen has taken ill and is suffering from a severe case of lung fever. We met Ser Justin along the way, who joined us, since the passage to Eastwach-at-the-Sea is no longer safe for us. Ramsay Bolton’s wife, however, miscarried in the early stage of pregnancy, and we were unable to stop the bleeding. She died five days ago.”

Theon looked down and laid a hand on Jeyne’s frozen chest. A little bit of blood was encrusted on her fingernail where her arms were folded and her hands put on top of each other. _Jeyne, Jeyne, it rhymes with stain._

He had thought he had saved her – her at least – but as it had turned out, she had been lost since the day Ramsay had married her. The cloak of protection had been nothing but a shroud.

Two men approached and lifted the stretcher to take it away. Theon rose with a deep breath, and came nose to nose with glowing red eyes. 

When he had last seen Ghost, the direwolf had been a mere pup. Now he was fully grown and his head was level with Theon’s shoulder. The sight should have frightened Theon, but he felt no fear at all. Death had come for him at last, and it seemed only fair. 

He smiled. “Long time no see.”

The direwolf bared his teeth, a soundless growl. The two men carrying the stretcher scurried away in a hurry. 

“Snow!” he heard someone say. _The king._ “Call off your wolf.”

Footsteps approached. Theon was still staring into Ghost’s blood red eyes. “Do it, then,” he whispered. “Better you than anyone.”

Ghost showed his teeth again, but made no move to jump at him. 

“What are you waiting for?”

“Ghost,” he heard a voice he had never expected to hear again. “To my side.”

The direwolf hesitated. Then he huffed and went to his master’s side, regarding Theon with a last disdainful look. 

Theon turned around to face Jon Snow.

Snow, too, had been a pup when their ways parted. A sullen, withdrawn boy, prickly to the extent of ridiculousness. Proud and resentful and so noble it hurt. Such a grateful target for Theon’s taunts and needling, so easy to rise to the bait. They had loathed each other. Both outsiders in their own way, they could as well have grown up to be allies. As it was, they begrudged each other what they thought the other had – Theon Jon the love of his father, Jon Theon his rank, because even as a hostage, Theon still was a trueborn son and was treated as such by Lady Catelyn. They both competed for Robb’s approval. Where Theon wanted admiration – he was the elder, after all – Jon wanted affection. It all seemed so petty now, three years after they had last met.

They had both been boys. Now, as Theon laid eyes on Jon for the first time since the bastard had left for the Wall, it became obvious how things had changed.

Jon had to be seven-and-ten now. He had grown and was as tall as Theon, maybe even taller. He held himself with the air of a man used to giving commands and be obeyed. Those eyes – eyes like Lord Eddard’s – were as perceptive as ever, but somewhere along the way, Jon Snow had learned to conceal his emotions, once so apparent in every blink of grey eyes under long, dark lashes.

Broad-shouldered but lean, with the defined muscle of a man used to exertion and weapon training, Jon looked more like Theon once had than Theon did himself. 

Jon squinted at him and frowned. Then his eyes widened with shock. “Greyjoy?” he asked and looked at Theon as if he was seeing a ghost.

Theon sneered, showing the atrocity that was his face. “The very same, Snow.”

Snow’s expression, predictably, hardened at that. “Traitor”, he said with steel in his voice. “Why are you still alive?”

Now that was an opportunity too good to waste. “That question, you better ask the king, Snow.” Theon laughed, and he did not care that he sounded like a madman. 

Somewhere, Snow had also acquired a sword, blade impressively long and sharp, and it was at Theon’s throat. The blade held the gleam of Valyrian steel. _The bastard has grown up, Theon thought giddily, and found a new toy along the way. Now, Snow, you grow more like your father every day._

“Snow,” the king bellowed. “Put away your sword. It that the way you greet your king?”

Snow’s gaze flickered. Slowly he withdrew the blade, and a moment later he sheathed it. With a last long, cold look at Theon he went and knelt before Stannis. “Your Grace.”

“A word with you, Lord Snow,” the king ordered. 

“You as well, Ser Axell,” he addressed one of the knights who had come with the queen before he turned and strode inside the great keep.

The woman in red – R’hllor’s priestess, Theon guessed – went with him.

Or she would have, had the king not halted and dismissed her with a cold stare. “My lady. Have the steward assign you appropriate lodgings. I will speak to you later.”

Before she could do more than look at him in utter bewilderment, Stannis was gone, and Snow and the knight with the crest of House Florent as well. 

_There is someone Stannis loathes more than me,_ Theon noted. _What a pleasant surprise._


	13. Jon II

The solar looked wholly unfamiliar. Stannis, who paced the room with restless strides, also seemed out of place. 

Their arrival at Winterfell had been... disconcerting. The castle itself was almost the same. If Jon had not known of the fire and the destruction, he would not have noticed the difference in texture and color of the old and the new stonework of the great hall, or the newer bars ingrained in the timber framing of the guest house. Some buildings were still in ruins. Others, such as the library tower and the maester’s turret, were just being rebuilt, scaffolds in place around them. 

It were not the traces of the fire that had changed Winterfell most. For Jon, the absence of familiar faces amongst the servants weighed heavier than the visible reminders of the destruction. Those who had assembled in the yard to watch their arrival were Stannis’ men, and some clansmen Jon did not know. 

It should have been Jory Cassel guarding their entrance, Hullen tending to their horses, Maester Luwin inquiring after their health. But all those men were dead, and Jon felt like a stranger in a place that had been the only home he knew, in a way the Wall would never be. 

He could have cried from misery.

Then he saw Stannis standing before the door to the great hall, motionless, and it gave him a jolt. 

That should have been his father, standing there and welcoming him back. The grief had an edge that, even after two years, made the feeling of loss ache like his knife wounds never had. 

As Jon dismounted in the courtyard and went the last steps afoot, however, he felt something different, a strange mixture between relief and anticipation. His eyes sought out the king. Stannis looked haggard and thin, lonely as he stood there, and Jon felt drawn to him without knowing why. 

Jon considered it again as he watched the king in his solar. Ser Axell assumed the bigger part of the telling, while Jon mostly remained silent, only adding a few remarks where it was necessary to explain the order of things and his own part more precisely. It was hard to do that and not give in to the urge to justify himself before the king.

Once Ser Axell was done, Stannis came to a halt in front of the fireplace. “What about my wife’s illness?”

“Most regrettable, Your Grace. The cold affected her badly.”

“No one else seems to have suffered to that degree.”

“It appears that way, Your Grace,” Ser Axell affirmed, and offered no explanation. 

“Very well. You may leave, Ser Axell. Please ensure that the queen’s accommodations are most comfortable, and that she receives the best care. My daughter as well.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Jon remained alone with the king. Right after Florent had closed the door, Stannis turned around to address Jon. 

“Pray tell, Lord Snow, how things came to be so adverse since my departure.” His voice was sharp enough to cut through stone. 

“I wish I could,” Jon said tiredly and almost winced when he saw the king’s menacing scowl. 

“That answer does not satisfy me in the least, Lord Snow. You need to do better than that. You are the Lord Commander, it is your obligation to know exactly what caused this escalation.”

“My brothers did not agree with my view regarding the wildlings...” 

Stannis waved his hand, interrupting him. “That much was obvious from the beginning. Do not waste my time.”

“They also were unhappy with your demands and the queen’s, and took offense at the concessions I made. But that is neither here nor there. They disliked most of my decisions.”

Stannis scowled at him. “The whole time at the Wall you lectured me on your vows, and withheld your support for the sake of neutrality. Yet when the Bolton bastard sent his letter, you were quick to dismiss them, and run off like the immature boy you are.”

The condescending words should have stirred Jon’s anger, but for once he could not object to the king’s harsh judgement. The king was angry, and he was right. Jon winced. 

“I made a mistake,” he said.

Stannis made a disgusted noise, somewhere between a growl and a snort. “You were the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. You should have known that your brothers – especially those who were older and had worn the black much longer than you – would never let such a transgression pass. That, in addition to what you had already asked of them... It is a leader’s duty to know what he can rightfully demand of his men, and what will make them waver in their loyalty.”

Jon felt inexplicably hurt by the king’s disapproval. “I did what I felt was right. I did what needed to be done to strengthen our forced against the enemy beyond the Wall. What should I have done differently, Your Grace?” 

He did not know whether his words were meant as a challenge or as an honest inquiry. 

“Leave the wildlings to their own devices. Make those you permitted through the Wall swear fealty to you. Feed only those who took the black and earned their keep. A leader’s duty is also to make hard decisions that would be considered ruthless under different conditions.”

“I could not let them stay at Hardhome with no means of escape. The Others would have taken them and sent thousands of wights back to us.”

“You cannot know that,” Stannis objected.

“No,” Jon said. “But it seems likely.” He was so tired of explaining himself and his motives. It seemed to him he had done nothing else for the last few years. 

Stannis looked at him with a cool, appraising gaze. “You cannot rule with kindness and good intentions. If Eddard Stark did not teach you that, he deprived you of the most important lesson.”

The king waited for a moment for his words to sink in before he continued. “You wanted to earn the wildlings’ approval, but it alienated your sworn brothers. You were so sure of your authority that you thought it unnecessary to placate them. Had you, maybe, listened to their advice more often, they would not have turned against you when it mattered most.”

Jon thought that was a bit much, coming from Stannis who deemed it a wound to his dignity to explain himself even to his most trusted counselors. 

The king shook his head. “You failed in your duty. But I did as well. I trusted you to keep the Wall safe and acted accordingly. I knew you were too young, yet when you opposed me so strongly at Castle Black and seemed to grow into your responsibility, I was led to believe you capable of leading the Night’s Watch even under extraordinary circumstances. I should have known better.” 

The words were harsh, and Jon swallowed and balled his hands into fists at his side. But he kept silent and told himself that Stannis had every right to reprimand him – because of Jon’s foolishness, the king could no longer count on the Nightfort as his stronghold in the North. 

Jon said nothing, not even to his defense, and after a moment of silence, the king’s gaze marginally softened. 

“You meant well. It is hard to see one’s greatest efforts thwarted so. Consider your failure a lesson, one that you can count yourself lucky to have survived. Never forget it.”

Those words were almost kind, although they did little to ease the weight that seemed to rest on his shoulders. Jon touched the place where the knife had stabbed him. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“The Lady Melisandre healed you?” 

The sudden, unexpected change of topic made Jon furrow his brow. “Well... so she said. I do not remember. When I came to, my wounds were already scarred, and that should not have been possible at all.”

“Let me see.”

“Pardon, Your Grace?” 

“The wounds. Let me see them.”

The king came closer and gestured for him to take off his shirt. Jon felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. He fumbled with the laces and finally got them loose. 

The distance between them had shrunk to a minimum. Stannis stared at his bare chest, an odd expression on his face, staring intently as if he wanted to memorize the scars. He extended a hand. For a moment Jon thought the king might touch him and held his breath, but then Stannis let his hand drop and turned around. The king went to a table next to the desk and poured himself wine – or water, more likely – from a pitcher.

Jon hastily did up the laces again and willed the blush from his face. 

Stannis cleared his throat. “We have much and more to discuss. Take the day to settle in, and learn the facts of what happened during our campaign, and after the sack of Winterfell. Ser Richard will tell you; return to me in the morrow.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You may go, Lord Snow. One more thing, though. I am aware you want to exact vengeance on the turncloak who killed your brothers. You will abstain from doing so, however.”

“I have the right,” Jon said. He had barely been able to hold himself back in the yard.

“Not so long ago, you denied your family and your origins. You will not disobey me now. The turncloak’s life is mine, as is Winterfell for the time being. We are no longer at the Wall where you may treat me as a supplicant. You are here merely because I give you permission to be. You would do best to remember that, Lord Snow.”

The words were a warning as well as a reminder that Stannis would hold a grudge for all eternity. Jon did not reply to that, but he still had to ask why Theon had not been put on trial and sentenced to death. Ramsay Snow and Mance Rayder both had been executed. “Why would you protect him, after all he has done?”

“Have you even looked at the man? Believe me, Snow, Greyjoy has already paid for his misdeeds, and he still pays.”

“How so?”

The king laughed, utterly without joy. “That, too, you will doubtlessly learn soon enough. For now, just do as I bid.”


	14. Theon VII

Theon had not expected the king to call for him this evening. At his arrival at the solar – not the king’s bedroom, he noticed with something akin to regret – he could hear the rise and fall of a woman’s voice even through the sturdy door. 

With a signal of his hand, one of the guard bid him to wait. 

Theon locked his eyes on the ground, fidgeting and pretending not to be there while he felt the guard’s contemptuous gaze on him. He hated being under close scrutiny with no chance to escape. He counted to a hundred in his mind, withstanding the urge to squeeze his own arms for reassurance. Without the protection of a cloak to hide it, it was simply too pathetic a gesture.

What exactly the woman said could not be heard, but the cadence was clear enough, from cool and agitated to low and sweetly soothing, only to be replaced by a different tone altogether after a moment, curt and to the point, not unlike the king’s own voice.

A moment later the door opened and the red priestess walked out. A frown marred her beautiful face. She wore a pulsing, glowing ruby at her throat, drawing attention to the fair, unblemished skin and the top of her breasts, a soft swell visible beneath the silken gown. 

A year ago, Theon would have wanted to fuck her, throw her on the nearest available surface, lift her skirts and bury his cock inside her with a single thrust, have her writhing beneath him while he took his pleasure. 

Ramsay would have loved her skin. Would have painted her with blood all over, to see the red glow like rubies on flawless ivory. 

Her eyes regarded Theon closely and narrowed as she took in his appearance as a whole. _Yes,_ he thought, _I am as ugly as I look. Still the king likes to fuck me, and doesn’t get it up for your sweet cunt, no matter how hard you try._ The seductive tone of her voice still rang in his ear, the intent unmistakable even though he had not been able to make out the words. _His Grace likes a man’s ass better, even mine. I wonder if you knew that about him._

A moment later she walked past him and the guard ushered him inside. 

Stannis stood hunched over the desk, hands clenched around the edge. His anger was a palpable, living thing.

 _Seems I am in for it._ Theon swallowed around the sudden fear and nausea. _Well, whatever it takes. Go ahead. It’s what I am here for after all._ He had grown careless. For the last weeks, Stannis had gone easy on him. He should have known that was nothing but a temporary reprieve.

The king turned around, and when the full force of his gaze met Theon’s, he almost ran.

Stannis had him bent over the desk. Theon muffled his cries with his own fist. The king staggered back with a muffled curse once he was done and fastened up his clothes. Theon lay there hurting, trying to find the strength to straighten himself to a stance. He wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve, then bent down to pull up his breeches. The world seemed far away, his hear beat furiously in his chest, and he drew deep, anxious breaths.

His legs were too weak to hold his weight. He slumped, backside first, to the cold, hard floor. 

For a moment, he was not sure he wanted to get up again

Strong hands seized his collar and pulled him up. “What is wrong?”

The king was either more obtuse or less experienced than Theon had thought. 

“Nothing,” he replied with an incredulous laugh. “Nothing at all.”

Stannis squeezed his shoulders tightly. Theon winced.

“Do not taunt me.”

“Taunt you?” Theon repeated. “Hardly.” 

“I will not be made a fool of, much less by the likes of you.” 

Stannis shook him, and Theon hung limply in his grip. “I would never.”

“That is what all of them say, and yet they do, time after time.”

Theon opened his eyes wide and stared at him. Was the king _insane?_

“I can trust no one. Least of all you, turncloak, do not believe that I forgot that.”

“You _can_ trust me, do you not see that? I have nothing left to lose.”

“Aye. But you have much to gain by trying to earn my favor.”

“Earn your favor? By what means?” Theon laughed again, and even in his own ears, it sounded more like a sob. “You already have all you want from me. There is nothing left.”

Stannis shook him again, his eyes blazing, as if they wanted to brand Theon. “You wallow in self-pity, turncloak. You are still alive, when I long since could have killed you.”

“Because you want to fuck me.”

“Aye,” the king said with his jaw clenched.

“I know, that is all I am good for,” Theon said. “I wonder, though, do you give all your bedmates the same consideration for their needs and wants?”

“That is hardly of any concern to you. As for _your_ wants and needs, those I could not care less about.”

 _I knew that._ Gods, but he felt tired all of a sudden, he only wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep. “May I leave?”

Stannis let go of him. “Go.”

Theon limped out of the solar. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with bleak._

~~~~~

They had taken her to the simple, unadorned stone pavilion in the lichyard. The stretcher stood in the center of the room. It was cold and dark inside; they had spared no candles for her. 

Arya Stark, of course, would have been laid out in state, but Jeyne had been no Stark. 

_Jeyne Poole. Is there anyone who mourns her death, anyone but me?_ Theon set down the lantern he had brought from the great keep down and knelt beside her stretcher. 

_She would have liked to learn of Ramsay’s execution. That she was free of him, once and forever._

_I wish I were, too._

He remembered Jeyne vividly: her frightened eyes, her tears, her cries. Even her taste, between her trembling legs on the wedding bed. _She did not hate me for that, but she should have._

“What are you doing here, Greyjoy?” a hostile voice said and startled Theon from his thoughts.

The bastard. Of course.

Theon rose to his feet and cast Snow a wary glance. “What do you want?”

Snow crossed his arms over his chest, whether to look grim, or to keep himself from drawing his sword again, Theon could not tell.

“Why did you help to free her? I was given to understand you were Ramsay’s ally.”

“His ally?” Theon laughed, it was that ridiculous. “I bet they told you something different.” _His bitch, his pet._

He judged he had been right by the silence that followed. 

“It doesn’t matter what I heard from others,” Snow said at last. “I want to hear it from you.”

“Why would you possibly want that? You would not believe a word one way or the other, now would you?”

“That depends,” Snow said and approached with two measured steps. 

Theon backed away. “The king wants me alive.”

“I know that. Why should I care?” Snow said. He had been so easy to read once, and now Theon could not tell whether he was serious or whether he bluffed. 

“The debt I owe to my brothers’ and my father’s memory weigh heavier than my obligation toward Stannis,” Snow said.

“It is said that you owe your own life to his red priestess,” Theon said, and watched as Snow’s eyes narrowed. “Not a sign of gratitude to act against the king’s explicit wishes.”

“I need no reminder of my duties or debts, Greyjoy.”

Theon shrugged and did not reply. 

Why did you bring her to Stannis?” Snow insisted. “You must have known they would take you prisoner.”

“I wanted to get away. Is that so hard to understand?”

“Why would you? You were safe at Winterfell.”

Theon started to laugh, almost hysterically, until his eyes watered. “Is that what they told you?”

“They told me you were a prisoner of the Dreadfort and sided with the Boltons. You delivered Moat Cailin to them. You came to Winterfell at Bolton’s side and took part in that farce of a wedding.”

Tears were streaming down Theon’s face. “Of course they would.” He laughed again, knowing he sounded as mad as a rabid dog. 

“Jeyne said differently,” Snow said, and Theon fell quiet with a hiccoughing sob. 

“What did she say?” he whispered.

“She said you helped her not only to escape, but to stay alive. She said Bolton had tortured you, so much that you had almost lost your mind, and that you were as afraid of him as she. That he treated you like a dog or worse, and that you could not eat because he broke your teeth, and that he had flayed and cut off your fingers and toes, then threatened that he would do the same to her, if she didn’t please him. That he called you Reek, and did not allow you to bathe or clean yourself. He described to her how he broke you at the Dreadfort, and that Theon Greyjoy was now a lie, only a mask he made you wear, and that you were truly his puppet.”

Snow’s voice and face betrayed nothing as he recited her words. Theon shuddered. He gripped his forearms, desperately searching for comfort. 

“She also said that without you, she would have killed herself. That you saved her on the way back, told her not to reveal that she was not Arya, so Stannis would protect her.”

Theon’s eyes strayed to her face, covered now with a thin, almost transparent shroud. “Her, and me.”

“As I thought,” Snow said. “Even so, she said you freed her.” His gaze, too, rested on her, and there was a hint of regret in his eyes.

“Not me. Abel, and his washerwomen,” Theon grudgingly admitted. “They made me help.”

“I know. Although I wondered... you could have gained Bolton’s favor by betraying them. Why didn’t you?”

“The Gods. They knew. They knew me. Me, not Reek.”

Snow shook his head, and Theon pulled his cloak tight around himself. 

“Why did you betray Robb, Theon? You were like a brother for him.”

“ _Like._ Not real,” Theon forced out. “What would you know about that, Snow, you left your family willingly when you went to the Wall, I was taken from mine when I was nine.”

“You were my father’s ward, and he trusted you.”

Theon shuddered as he heard that word. It had always meant one thing only: a hostage, a foreigner. The son of a traitor. _Yes, it runs in the family._ “Lord Eddard would have taken me to the block the moment the crown required it. He would have taken that greatsword of his and cut off my head and I. Always. Knew. It.”

Snow paled a little at that. “No. He would not have...”

“If his beloved king had ordered him to?” Theon spat with sudden fury. “Believe me, Snow, the moment my father would have dared to rise against the crown, your father would have led me outside with my neck bared for the blade. Regretfully, for sure, maybe even feeling guilty about it, but what difference does that make? Every time he made us watch as he carried out a death sentence, I thought: not me, not me, please, Gods, not me.”

“He never treated you as a hostage.”

“Not any more than he treated you as a bastard. But you knew damn well you were one, didn’t you.” 

Theon saw the unwelcome realization hit and sneered. With Snow he would take his victories where he could.

“Be that as it may,” Snow said. “What did _Robb_ do to you to deserve your betrayal? He confided in you. He trusted you.”

“I didn’t want to,” Theon said. “But my father demanded it. What should I have done? When I came home, my father treated me like a stranger, someone he could not trust. I was his heir, he should have welcomed me back home. But he thought I had become a northerner at heart and wanted me to prove him wrong. What else should I have done than to obey when he demanded my obedience? I had no wish to betray Robb. What I wanted was to return to him with my father’s sealed agreement to his plans, en envoy, an equal – an ally. But my father refused and made me chose a side. His side, or Robb’s. I was home, finally, after all these years, but all my kin looked at me with distrust. How could I refuse?”

Snow stared at him, nostrils flaring, and remained silent. 

“It wasn’t possible. Even if I had wanted to return, they would have kept me at Pyke, a prisoner in my own home. There was but one decision I could make. So I burnt my bridges.”

From then on, there had only been one path to take. Doing things by half would have gained him nothing, and so he had committed himself to a new course. 

“Taking Winterfell was a tactical move. I thought my father would appreciate it more. I knew I could take the castle, and hoped that it would please my father, show him I was truly his son. I begged for him to send more men. Had he done it, I could have held the castle, but he did not.  
I knew it had all been a mistake by then, but what should I have done? When Ser Rodrik returned, I wanted to yield, truly, but then Reek came, the second one, not the first, not me – and he betrayed me in turn and then... then...” 

_The Dreadfort. Pain, so much pain._ Theon closed his eyes. 

“Jon Snow, sanctimonious bastard, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. No, certainly you never made a wrong decision, were never forced to do something you regretted afterward.”

“I did, and I was,” Snow said after a moment. “But, Theon, Bran and Rickon... What have they done to deserve their fate? Some things, I can understand, truly, I can, but this... how could you?” His voice almost broke at the end. “They were just little boys.”

“I know.” Theon knew, better than Snow, how they had looked at him as he ordered their deaths. It did not matter that the boys he saw in his mind wore different faces.

“They looked up to you. They trusted you. Gods, Theon. how could you do that? I cannot forgive you that. Never. You deserve death, and I fail to understand why Stannis let you live.” 

Had Snow not heard the scandalous rumors yet? Theon was close to cackling like a crone. “Oh, but that is a good one, Snow. You will love this.”

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The reason that the king does not kill me,” he murmured and leaned forward to let Snow in on the secret, “Is that he fucks me.”

The confession was met with an incredulous stare, and Snow opened his mouth and closed it again, staring at Theon. “You are out of your mind.”

“Oh, but it is the truth. Your precious Stannis fucks me. He’s had me every night since he took Winterfell.”

“You are lying.”

“Why would I?”

“Even if Stannis preferred men, I refuse to believe he would stoop so low as to bed _you_.”

_Isn’t that interesting? From denial to petty insults in the blink of an eye. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was jealous._

_That can be explored, surely._

“He does not bed me, he only fucks me,” Theon said with a wicked laugh. “I can still feel it, you know? Wet like a woman from his spunk. You should try it some time, Snow, he might fuck the stick right out of your ass.”

Snow took a step back. “You disgust me.”

“That’s nothing new. You are not the only one.”

Snow shook his head and turned to leave the pavilion without another word. 

Theon did not know what made him do, but when Snow was on the doorstep, Theon called him back. “I did not do it.”

Snow halted. He looked back over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Bran and Rickon. I did not kill them.”

“Then you ordered their deaths. What difference does it make?”

“No. I never... they were not Bran and Rickon. Just boys.”

Snow spun around on his heels. “What are you saying, Greyjoy, you better explain, or, by the Gods, I swear...”

“They escaped. I do not know how. Bran and Rickon, the wildling woman, Hodor, even Reed’s children... they were gone one day, without a trace. We went out searching for them, but could not find their tracks, only the wolves’, and when... when at last I thought we had found their hiding place, they were not there. _They were not there._ I had to have their heads. I could not return without them, don’t you see that? But there were the miller’s boys, and Ramsay killed them and then he flayed them, and we brought their heads back. And they all believed me. But they were not Bran and Rickon, they were the miller’s boys.” 

Snow took a step toward him. “Are you telling me – that Bran and Rickon are still alive?”

“I would not know,” Theon said, almost in a daze. Did Snow truly believe him? “I never found them; they might be dead after all.”

“Why did you not tell anyone?”

Theon looked aside. “As you said,” he replied softy. “They were only boys.” _And I killed them. It matters not that Ramsay wielded the sword. It was me all the same._ “Doesn’t matter much whose sons they were, does it?”

Their mother. The miller’s wife. _At least he killed her with a single stroke and did not rape her. He never raped the corpses, he liked it better when they screamed. The other Reek did not mind when they were still and silent. That’s why Ramsay tried to make me, once._

_Beth. Beth Cassel, after he was done with her. Turned out I could not get it up for her dead, broken body. That made him angry; he called me ungrateful._

_He skinned my first toe that night._

Snow stared at him in wretched horror, and Theon wondered, had he said any of that aloud?

After a long moment, Snow regained his composure. “You could have told Umber. The king, at least...”

“As if anyone would believe the word of a turncloak, with nothing to show for as proof?” Theon said. “I think not, Snow.”

Snow moved, a silent, deadly shadow. A shove sent Theon to his knees, steel sang, and Theon felt the blade once again grazing his throat. 

“You will swear to me. Swear by your name, by the Old Gods or the Seven or your Drowned God, that you did not kill Bran and Rickon Stark. Swear it to me.”

“I swear it,” Theon whispered. “I swear _by my name._ ” 

Relief shook him as Snow drew back his blade. He touched his throat and his fingers came back wet and warm at the tips with a smear of blood. Theon’s knees refused to hold him upright, and he sat back down. He smeared the blood over his own mouth, tasting salt and iron and the graveness of his words.

_I am Theon again._


	15. Jon III

_It must have been Summer, the direwolf I saw when I left the wildlings behind and made my flight for Castle Black. Was Bran with him? Where are they now?_

Jon’s head spun when he entered the great hall. _I need to tell the king. He will send out scouting parties to look for them._

But would Stannis believe him, when the only evidence were Theon’s words? _Not likely. I am a fool to believe him, no one else would even consider trusting him. I must not, either._

Yet somehow he was sure that Greyjoy had spoken the truth. _I do not think that he has it in him to lie anymore._

Greyjoy had not tried to palliate his deeds. He had been blunt to the point where it hurt.

Did that mean that he had also told the truth about Stannis? 

_No,_ Jon thought. _Surely the king wouldn’t. Stannis is a man of honor, he would not disgrace himself so._

But why would Greyjoy have fabricated such a thing, one that could be easily proven a lie? _It must be true._

Even if Stannis preferred men in his bed, why would he stoop so low as to coerce someone under the threat of death? But the only other possibility, that Theon had seduced the king, seemed not only unlikely but rather absurd, given how he looked and acted. Jon could not make sense of it. 

Lost in his thought, he only noticed the woman with the dark hair when she stepped in his way. He raised his eyes to look at her. She appeared slightly taller than him. With short dark hair. a sharp nose and blue eyes, she looked familiar, although he was sure he had never seen her before.

“My lady?” he asked.

“Lord Snow.” She bowed her head like a man would. Only now he realized that she wore a man’s garb as well, breeches and a tunic and a surcoat made of leather. 

He had no right to use the title anymore; it had always been more of a jest anyway. “I am no lord.”

“Jon Snow, then. I am Asha Greyjoy.”

“Theon’s sister?” 

“Sadly, yes.” A hint of a smile curved her lips. “May I have a word with you?”

Jon was tired and too overwhelmed by everything he had learned today to care much for either scheming or empty courtesies, and was prepared to say as much. Yet Lady Asha smiled at him as if she could read his mind, and said: “I stole a tankard of strong ale from the kitchen. It is quite good, and I would gladly share with you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You stole it?”

“Well, yes.” She shrugged.

Her frankness reminded him of the women of the free folk, and he felt a hint of sympathy toward her. “For a short while, then.”

The great hall was near empty, with only a few of Stannis’ men sitting at the long tables, guards who had just been relieved of their duty. Lady Asha urged him to a deserted place in one corner. She put a tallow candle in an earthen bowl on the table and leaned down to retrieve the promised tankard from under it. In foresight she had also brought two goblets and presented one to Jon with a flourish.

Jon wondered for a moment whether she planned to poison him. But there was no reason for her to do so, and he accepted the goblet from her hand and waited as she poured the ale.

“To Winterfell,” she said and raised her cup. “And the Boltons’ defeat.” 

That was a toast he could gladly assent to, and did so. She had been right, the ale was strong. It tasted of home.

He put the tankard down after the first swallow. “What is it that you want from me, Lady Asha? I would not usually be so blunt, but my day was long and trying, and my patience has worn rather thin.”

She raised her eyebrows and took another gulp of her ale before she replied. “I wish to know whether you would take Stannis’ offer, should he renew it.”

Jon was glad that he had no ale in his mouth to spit it all over the table out of surprise. “What offer?” he asked to buy time.

Lady Asha rolled her eyes. “It is no secret that Lord Stannis offered you Winterfell when you were still the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Now that you have left the Wall and your alleged sister is dead, what do you think will happen?”

“I have spent no thought on that.” 

“Then you should,” she said. “You are Lord Eddard’s only remaining child.”

 _No, I am not,_ he thought, and a sudden, wild hope and joy filled him. He took another deep swallow to hide his face. _Bran and Rickon, my brothers, they are still alive. Maybe I can go and look for them myself. Maybe Ghost would be able to find Summer and Shaggydog._

He flexed his fingers. _I am free to go._ The thought was a foreign one, still beyond his grasp. If Asha’s prediction came to pass, his freedom would soon be nothing more than a foolish dream of the past. He would not refuse Winterfell again.

Provided that Stannis actually offered a third time. Jon doubted that the king wanted to, not after Jon had refused twice. Yet even Jon could see that there was no other choice.

No one but Jon and Theon knew that Bran and Rickon had not died at Winterfell. With Arya and Sansa still missing... the lords would settle for him, Jon Snow, Lord Eddard’s bastard, whose mother was not even known. 

Being the Lord of Winterfell... it should have held more appeal than it did. If Jon had ever had ever had the desire for, it was long gone, now that he knew what it entailed. Loneliness, an abundance of that. Decisions that weighed a man down down far more than any physical burden. He had seen the toll it took on those who took their responsibilities serious. His father. Mormont. Stannis. 

_If I take on the offer, it means I cannot go and search for Bran and Rickon myself. I must remain at Winterfell, and Stannis will expect me to come with him once he marches south to claim the throne. Assuming that the Others do not attack the Wall first._

_If I were Lord of Winterfell, I could treat with the wildlings and give them a home. I could even parley with the Night’s Watch. Not with those men who betrayed me, though, but with those who I can talk to without resentment or the wish for vengeance._

Jon sighed. He already felt the obligation settle on his shoulders again. Freedom... it was a selfish dream indeed. _What would I do if I were free to make my own decision?_ There was no doubt that his foremost duty lay with the people of the North and Winterfell, but what if that were different? What if Robb were still alive and capable of ruling?

The answer, though unexpected, came to him immediately, and he should have realized it sooner. I would swear fealty to the king. There was no doubt in him that Stannis, despite all, was a decent man, a brave man. _The rightful king. Robb was a fool to proclaim himself King of the North, he should have pledged to Stannis and sided with him._

_As I would gladly pledge to him, if he would have me._ The image came to his mind unbidden: sinking down to his knees before the king, with Longclaw presented to him int the traditional fashion. What Stannis would say, how he would look at Jon then? 

A spark of heat flared up in his stomach, and he quickly quenched it, before Lady Asha could see the traitorous blush on his face. 

He took another gulp. Where did that come from? 

The whole time Asha had watched him closely. “Judging from your absence of mind, you thought about it just now. What is your conclusion?”

Her bluntness would have been regarded as rude in another setting. Jon found it refreshing and told her so.

She laughed. “Bluntness is all I have left, Lord Snow. Stannis has taken my pride, my ships, my weapons.”

“At least you are not in chains.”

“Oh, but I was. But then the winter came, and his men were starving on the way to Winterfell, and His Grace decided that I was of more use to him unfettered. He even let me fight to earn my bread when the Boltons came upon us.”

Jon shook his head with a smile. “He must think very highly of you, then.”

Asha snorted. “The king despises the very sight of me. He loathes nothing more than treason, truly, and I cannot blame him for that. Yet he also knows that if he wanted to rid the world of traitors, he would have to start with all the lords who declared for Bolton and rid the North of its noblemen. I am of more worth to him alive, as a proof of his victories, and he can hardly put me in chains again when Lady Barbrey and Lord Umber walk around freely. I would have sworn fealty to him, had he taken my oath, but he will not accept, since he insists the farce of a marriage my nuncle held is real. In his eyes, that makes me a woman who may not treat without her husband’s consent.”

Jon had heard of it. “The king has his own way to read the law.”

“The king has his own way all right.”

Jon sighed. “You must admit that by your capture of Deepwood Motte, you did more than just follow a liege lord and declare for the wrong king in the wake of it. Even Hother Umber, who fought for the Boltons, did it only because the Freys hold his nephew prisoner.”

“I do not deny that I have earned the king’s distrust,” Asha admitted. “But I had hoped that I could find an ally in you, as someone who has won the king’s respect, if not as the future lord of Winterfell.”

“You must not make assumptions like these,” Jon told her a little sharply. He hoped that nobody else was around to hear.

Asha promptly raised her eyebrows. “I must not? As you say, Lord Snow. The fact remains. Of all the lords around, the kings trusts you most.”

“I am no lord.”

“ _Yet,_ ” she said, as if it was a foregone conclusion that he would be. 

“Even if I were, I hardly think that the king values my counsel any more than that of his knights, which is to say, not at all. He might press for knowledge, even ask for one’s assessment of a situation, but what he does with the advice offered to him is a different matter.”

“As it should be. Nevertheless...”

Jon shook his head. “The person you should try to win over is the Lady Melisandre, not me. She is the one the king listens to.”

“I have reason to believe that might have changed.”

Jon, too, had witnessed the cold reception the king had given the red woman in the morning. Still, he thought I was hasty to believe that the rift between the king and the priestess would be permanent. Stannis owed too much of his power to Lady Melisandre.

“I would not be too sure about that,” he offered Asha.

“Are you aware that His Grace stopped the burnings?”

“For now.” It was likely Stannis’ way to make a point, and regain some ground in his struggle of power with the priestess. She might withhold her support, but so could he, in response to her deception. 

Asha cocked her head to the side. “I would rather take my chances with you, Lord Snow.” 

She smiled at him, a sharp, predatory smile that reminded him of Theon. “I am sure it would be much more pleasant to be in _your_ debt than hers.”

Jon almost blushed at her blatant attempt at seduction. “I am flattered, but truly, I would not think that a prudent stroke.”

Asha laughed. “Are you trying to let me down gently, Lord Snow? There is no need for subtlety, you might as well tell me not to waste my time. Should you change your mind, however, I will be right here, as long as Stannis has no other use for me.”

Jon cleared his throat. “That is good to know.”

The gleam in her eyes told him that she enjoyed every moment of his discomfort. “But you _are_ aware that he first thing they will make you do as the Lord of Winterfell is to marry, are you not?”

Jon swallowed down the rest of his ale in one desperate gulp.

~~~~~

As far as Jon could tell, Wyman Manderly had not changed much since he had last seen him, years ago at Winterfell, when the fat lord had come to visit his father. Manderly had taken little notice of him at the time, or so Jon had thought, until Manderly looked at him and smiled. “You have grown up, Jon Snow, and you look more like your father every day.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Jon said. Lord Eddard had held Manderly in high regard and considered him one of his most trusted allies.

“I am very sorry for your losses,” Manderly said. “The last years have taken a terrible toll on the North, and on House Stark most of all. The atrocity that was the Red Wedding shall never be forgotten, and the traitors will pay for it.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“That set aside, I have heard that you, too, were betrayed most shamefully. May I be so bold as to inquire what you intend to do?”

Jon sighed. “I would gladly tell you, my lord, if I knew. I would return to the Wall, since my vows still tie me to the Night’s Watch, if I did not know that it would mean my certain death.”

“Rumor has it that you were dead and brought back to life only by the red god’s mercy.”

“Whether it was R’hllor’s mercy, or Lady Melisandre’s, I cannot tell.”

“Of course. If I may say so, Jon – may I call you that? – I am glad that she succeeded. I am also certain that, even though a vow such as yours should be kept under all circumstances, a sacrifice like the one you endured counts as a conclusion and fulfillment of any duty.”

“What do you mean by that, my lord?” 

“That by right and common sense, you are no longer be bound by the promise you made when you took the black. Your brothers have chosen their fate, and the price was was paid in your own blood.”

Jon could not object to that, so he bowed his head in acknowledgement. _I failed them, and indeed paid the price. They will pay, too, when the free folk goes to war, or the Others attack the Wall where it remains undefended. Mayhaps they are paying right now, with mutiny and treason. The last two Lord Commanders were slain by their sworn brothers, where does that leave the Night’s Watch? But Manderly is right, he and Stannis and Melisandre. They all told me I am no longer bound by my vows, and I start to believe it._

Manderly sighed. “Would you care for a goblet of wine?”

“No, my lord, but thank you.” The sun hard barely risen, it seemed a bit early to indulge in drinking.

Manderly shrugged. “But certainly you wouldn’t mind keeping me company?” 

He did not wait for a reply, but had his squire pour wine for himself and, after a short exchange, water for Jon.

“It must have been difficult for you, staying at the Wall while the ravens brought you news of your family’s losses.”

“It was,” Jon said quietly.

Manderly nodded with an expression of sympathy. “Many a man in your place would have failed in his duty and gone to avenge his kin. It is a sign of your strength and virtue that you did not.”

“You are too kind, my lord.” The water, pure and cool as it was, seemed unpalatable for a moment, as Jon thought of his helpless grief and fury. 

“After the Red Wedding, it must have been particularly trying”

It had been, and surely Manderly knew that. Jon could not fend off the suspicion that Manderly was testing him and found him wanting. “Pray forgive me, my lord, but I would rather not speak about that.”

“I understand,” Manderly said. He addressed the matter no more, and after a while Jon excused himself and went to see the king. He had been on his way to the solar when Manderly had ambushed him in a fashion similar to Lady Asha the evening before.

~~~~~

Jon arrived at the solar in time to see Lady Melisandre leave. She smiled when she saw him, but he had known her long enough to see the strain in it. “Lord Snow.”

“My lady.” He bowed formally. Since he had woken up, it appeared that she expected for him to come to her and express his gratitude – that, and probably his devotion to R’hllor. 

_It was not your false northern gods that saved you, Lord Snow, only the Lord of Light._

His refusal to see reason, as she called it, clearly angered her. He was grateful that she only cast him one measuring glance today before she went on her way. 

Jon watched her go and addressed the guard when she was out of sight. “Are there any news about the queen’s health?”

The man shook his head. “No, my lord. Her Grace is still feverish.” 

Jon wanted to ask whether Stannis had gone to see her, but wisely stifled the question. It was not something he ought to bring up with anyone at all. He did not want to contribute to the inevitable gossip.

“May I enter?” he asked instead.

“Yes, Lord Snow.”

He did not bother to correct the guard. Every man around the castle seemed to have taken on the notion that he was a man of rank. It was ridiculous: he did not even own a horse. Ghost, Longclaw, and his skill with a sword – those were all the possessions he had left. 

That, and the freedom to choose.

It was that thought that made Jon act, guided by instinct rather than deliberation.

When he had entered and Stannis turned around to face him, Jon approached him with three wide steps, drew Longclaw and knelt before the king. “Your Grace.” He lay down his sword for Stannis, and bowed his head. 

There it was, the decision made, and Jon listened to the silence that followed. 

Stannis picked up the sword. A moment later the blunt side of the blade touched Jon’s shoulder. 

“Jon Snow,” the king said. “Do your swear fealty to me as a liege, and promise to give me honest counsel and loyal obedience?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“Will you follow me as your rightful king, and fight at my side in battle? Will you defend my realm against any foes with sword and shield, to protect my people, and serve me faithfully and truly? 

“I will, Your Grace.”

“Then rise as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.”

Jon lifted his head and looked at Stannis. “No, Your Grace.”

The king stared at him, incensed. “I am inclined to call for my own sword, Lord Snow, and take your head instead of your oath,” he said with a truly threatening growl. “Is that the kind of obedience you offer your king?”

“I wish not to be disobedient, Your Grace,” Jon said. “Yet I cannot take on the name of Stark: I am no trueborn son. Even your word cannot make it so. And, if you would be so kind, I wish only to be raised to be the regent of Winterfell, since I believe that a trueborn heir might yet be found.”

For a moment Jon thought the king would throttle him. “You try my patience,” Stannis said through clenched teeth. 

“Your Grace, if I may...”

“You may not,” Stannis said. “I have no need of a _Ser Snow_ , I have need of a Lord Stark. If you refuse to give me that, and throw back in my face yet again what I intended to give you...”

“Please,” Jon said. “Please, Your Grace.” He fell silent, helplessly. _Maybe I should have thought this trough before I did it._ Now the only thing left was to try to make the king see reason. _What a mess I have made of things. Again._

“Have you sworn fealty to me, or not?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

“It is not for you to decide how you may serve me, it is for you to obey.”

“I know that.”

“I have tolerated your insolence and disregard of my orders before since I had no choice. But you are no longer the Lord Commander, you are _mine_ , and you will do as I bid.”

There was nothing else left to say. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Twice I have offered you Winterfell, only to be rejected. I do not offer you a choice now.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Stannis stared at him. Jon’s meekness had done nothing to soothe his temper. “I can scent your defiance. It reeks of treason.”

Jon stared down at the floor and said nothing.

Stannis snorted. “Now explain what you meant with your rambling about a trueborn heir.”

“It may be... it may be that Bran and Rickon are still alive. My brothers.”

“I know their names,” Stannis said. “How is that possible? The turncloak murdered them.”

“He swore to me that he did not. It was only a ruse, or so he told me. Ramsay Bolton killed two young boys and flayed them. Their corpses were presented to the household as Bran and Rickon’s, but in truth the two were never found after their escape.”

The king’s lips curled in contempt. “And you believe that?”

“I think that Theon spoke the truth.”

Stannis shook his head. “You are a fool. You ought to know better than that. Have you not learned your lesson yet?”

That was a reminder Jon had no need of. “I have.”

“Then why would you trust a man who has betrayed your brother’s trust, burned down your home, and murdered your kin?”

“Because I listened to him,” Jon said. “What he said was...” _Disturbing._ “It rang true. A truth with thorns and nettles, to be sure, but truth nonetheless. He had no reason to lie to me, he knew he was safe from my wrath by your decree. He told me although he could not prove the truth, when it would have been more prudent to keep silent.”

“Why would he do that?”

Jon shrugged. “To atone, maybe. He knows me well enough. If there is even a slight chance that they might be alive, I will do anything to find them and bring them back to their rightful place.”

“Greyjoy is guilty of treason.”

“Many others are as well, in this war. I believe him, I cannot explain why, only that I have known him all my life, and even though we were foes rather than friends, I never thought he bore true resentment toward my siblings.”

“The very nature of treason, Snow, is that someone is in a position to betray you, whether because he is sworn to you, or because you trust him.”

“I know, Your Grace. But I think...”

Stannis exhaled audibly.

“I think he has no reason to lie anymore, and has paid for what he did far more than anyone will ever know.”

Stannis scowled at him. 

“Please, Your Grace. If there is any chance that Bran and Rickon are still alive, let me try to find them and bring them home. I have no wish to defraud them of their birthright, or take on a name that is not mine. There is no honor found in pretense. Let me be an honorable Snow, not a false Stark.”

“That is your pride talking, not your sense of duty.”

“But, Your Grace, if I took your offer, and rose above my station, even if it was to your convenience, can you truly say that you would not think less of me?”

The king’s stare was fierce, but Jon refused to look away and held his gaze, still kneeling on the floor.

“You knew what I would offer you before you knelt,” Stannis said. “Why did you do it, if not to earn your reward?

“Because it was the right thing to do,” Jon replied, puzzled, but sincere. “At the Wall, I was bound by my vows and sworn to the Night’s Watch. Now I am free to give you my allegiance, and I would gladly follow you, if you let me.”

“And if I decided not to give you Winterfell at all?”

“Then that would be within your right,” Jon said without hesitation. 

“And you would regret your rash decision.”

“I would obey.”

A long silence followed. Stannis’ gaze measured him, and at last the king nodded.

“I will hold you to your word, Lord Snow. You swore obedience, and obedience I shall have of you. Bow your head again.”

Jon did, and his heart started beating furiously.

Longclaw touched his shoulder again. “Rise, Jon Snow, Regent of Winterfell. Do right by your king, and by the people of the North, for Warden of the North you shall be as long as Winterfell has no true heir.”

In a daze Jon came to his feet. Stannis presented Longclaw to him, a strange, sharp smile on his face. “You got your wish, Lord Snow. Now we shall see how you convince the northern lords to follow your lead.”


	16. Theon VIII

The ceremony was held in the great hall. Theon watched from behind a pillar as Jon Snow knelt in front of the king and was announced Regent of Winterfell. The bastard had some of his men bring a big, sturdy chair and set it down before the ancient throne. It became clear to anyone that he had no intention of declaring himself Lord Stark of Winterfell. Yet.

Theon wondered whether the king or Snow himself had insisted on making the difference. Snow, probably, since he had seemed to believe Theon, and was too honorable to take advantage of his brothers’ absence.

The lords, one after another, took their vows, and Snow accepted them graciously enough. Stannis stood at his side, motionless as a statue.

Even Manderly the Fat bent his knee. 

All the time, the white direwolf sat beside the throne, and lifted his head every once in a while. Sometimes he growled and bared his teeth. Lady Barbrey was met with disapproval, as were Harwood Stout and Hugo Wull. Snow seemingly paid little attention to Ghost, but Theon was sure that he took notice of the wolf’s reactions nonetheless and would remember them.

Once all was said and done, a feast was held, albeit a humble one in comparison to the fake wedding. Theon sat at a lower table, surrounded by guards and men-at-arms and tried to ignore the disdainful glances cast in his direction. Hidden in the crowd, he observed the main table on the dais.

The queen was absent, but Princess Shireen sat on her place, with Lady Alys beside her as a lady-in-waiting. The red priestess had been seated at the end of the table rather than in the center, and watched with narrow eyes as Snow stood and toasted the king. 

Stannis, predictably, accepted it with a grim expression and a curt nod. The lords and their men cheered, but they cheered for Snow, not for the king.

_He freed the North of the Boltons, but they will never love him. He slew the wildlings at the Wall, but nobody thanked him for it. They know he has no real regard for them, that they are only subjects to him, his pawns, and while he demands their allegiance, he does not cherish it._

Another piece of the puzzle that was Stannis Baratheon fell into place as Theon watched him and understood. _He does not want to be here. In his head he is behind his desk with maps and the ravens’ latest messages, learning what he can, planning ahead, five steps at a time._

Stannis had barely eaten and drank only water from an anxiously guarded cup that one of his squires, a boy that had come with the queen’s entourage, poured for him. Since the cooks had been busy preparing the feast, no meal had been served since the morning. Had the king eaten since then at all?

Would Stannis summon him tonight? Theon winced at the thought. He was sore enough from the last fuck that he dreaded eating, as he knew how painful it would be to empty his bowels later. 

He continued to watch, hidden in the crowd with his hood drawn over his face. While Jon Snow looked a little uncomfortable as the men drank and toasted him, he did nothing to discourage them and spoke with a guarded, polite seriousness that made him appear older than he was.

The Wall had done him some good. The wary look he had worn as a youth was gone, and he was sure of himself now, not exactly cheerful, but far from defensive and brooding. He reminded Theon of Lord Stark when he had first seen him. He wondered what Stannis saw in Snow.

_If he did not think him worthy of respect, he would not have given him Winterfell. I would like to know what it is like to earn the king’s approval._

_I guess my chances to find out are slim._

The king retreated as soon as he could without appearing discourteous. Theon was not surprised when Henley tipped him on the shoulder shortly thereafter.

~~~~~

“That quicksilver tongue of yours, turncloak, may convince Lord Snow, but it will not sway me.”

Theon froze, still on the doorstep with one hand at the handle. Stannis stood in the middle of the room and watched him like a hawk. 

Theon looked away at once and fought the urge to hide. The king would not hurt him. Much. 

“No witty remark? You disappoint me,” the king said with an unpleasant smile. “You told Snow that you did not kill the Stark boys. Was that the truth?”

“Y... yes, Your Grace.” Again he fidgeted under the intense scrutiny.

“If, and I repeat, _if_ one of the boys, or both, are found alive, I will pardon you. Not before.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Come here.” Stannis beckoned him closer. 

Theon went, hesitating, and made ready to kneel. 

The king scowled. “I have had quite enough of false obeisance today. Stand, and bring me water.” 

Stannis turned and went to the table, where he took off his gloves and sat down on his chair. He ignored the tray that stood there, with a bottle of wine, big slices of bacon and bread and cold chicken that were still untouched, and bowed over the parchment that was rolled out and weighted. Why the king had brought it from the solar, where those things were were usually kept, Theon could not tell.

Theon fetched the pitcher and went to fill the king’s goblet. 

He risked a look and recognized the picture as a makeshift map of the Dreadfort and the lands of the Boltons. Something was off, and Theon leaned forward and looked at it more closely.

“Stop lurking behind me,” the king said. 

“Who gave you that map?” Theon asked.

“What is it to you?”

“Whoever drew this forgot the lake,” Theon said. “And the Weeping Water takes a different course north of the fortress.”

He set the pitcher back in its place and knelt down in front of the fireplace to stoke the fire. If Stannis wanted to use him as a chamber maid, Theon would not complain.

When he got up again, he became aware of the king’s gaze on him. He looked at Stannis questioningly.

“What would you know about cartography, turncloak?”

Theon nearly rolled his eyes. “I was raised at Winterfell, Your Grace, and it was a matter of honor for Lord Eddard to see me properly educated. I was taught everything a lord needs to know and more. The maester made me ride out to gauge and survey and had me draw a map on my own after. Once I had to do the same survey three times in a row to satisfy him. After that I made sure to look out for landmarks and distances wherever I went, in case he would test me again.”

A faint smile curled at the corner of Stannis’ mouth. “Could it possibly be that your are good for something after all? Come here, turncloak.”

 _Good for something else than being fucked, he means._ Theon obeyed, unsurprised when Stannis procured quills and ink from a drawer and made him sit down and draw a map of the Dreadfort himself.

Theon’s penmanship had always left much to be desired. It was worse now, after a year without exercise. His grip less steady around the shaft than he was used to, thanks to his missing pinkie, and the lines wobbled as he set to work. 

Stannis paced the room and watched him with like a hawk. “Do you need chalk and a slate, turncloak? My daughter could do better than that.”

“You should let her, then, Your Grace,” Theon said without thinking, drawing a careful curve where the river made a turn to the left. A fist came down on the table with force and made the inkwell jump and Theon cringe. 

Before he could say anything, Stannis went back to his restless stride, not without sending him a disgruntled glare.

“Why don’t you eat your dinner, and let me work?” Theon asked. “If I try and rush this, you will have no legible map at all.”

The proposal had been a casual one, born from desperation, but when Stannis’ gaze was drawn to the tray and he stared at it as if he did not recognize it, Theon frowned. “When was the last time you ate something? No wonder you are as thin as me.” Worse, maybe; at least Theon had regained a little weight with two regular meals a day. 

The king’s fist came down again. “You forget yourself, turncloak. Hold your tongue, and draw, or I will have you whipped.”

Theon bit his tongue and drew. He was almost done when he threw another wary glance at the king and found Stannis looking at the tray with something akin to longing.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you just eat?” he lashed out.

Stannis stared at him. Theon stared back, for once not afraid. 

“Fine,” the king said. “I will eat, and you will finish this map, and quickly.”

Theon sighed with relief and drew the outline of the Dreadfort, with the proportions as he remembered them, while the king abruptly sat down and drew the tray towards him.

As Theon put away the quill and looked at Stannis, he had to look twice, and still the picture refused to change. 

The king tore into the meat as if he had not eaten for days. He devoured it in what seemed like the blink of an eye, in great bites and with an apparent greed that left Theon speechless and gaping. 

The bread came next and was gone just as quickly. The only sounds were those of chewing and swallowing, and Theon stared incredulously at the wonder that was the king. Such hunger, so carefully guarded, how could the king live in that state of constant self-discipline? 

Stannis feasted like he fucked, viciously and violently. _Now look at that. Who would have known? Unleashed, and I am starting to believe that once he sets his mind to something, he will succeed, or be wholly defeated in the process._

Stannis threw a gnawed-off bone back on his plate. Theon almost flinched. Stannis swallowed the last bites down with a deep gulp of wine. When he was done, he wiped his hands on the napkin. “Are you satisfied now?”

Their eyes met. 

“I would not exactly call it that.” But it had certainly been illuminating.

“Stop nagging like a petulant housewife.”

The heavy meal – and likely the wine he was not used too – took its toll on the king. When Stannis rose from the table, he staggered with exhaustion, and sank down on the bed. It took visible effort for him to unfasten his boots. 

Theon watched him from his chair for a moment before he abandoned his drawing, went to the king and sank to his knees in front of him. 

If Stannis was surprised by this display of subservience, he did not remark on it. He regarded Theon from under heavy lids in silence as Theon reached for his boots and tugged. 

The boots came off. The sword belt was next.

“Tunic,” Theon commanded, and Stannis snorted, but lifted his arms so Theon could rise to his feet and, in the process, pull it over his head. 

Clad only in breeches and shirt, the king lay back down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling. Theon went to the table and blew out the candles, then returned to the bed and drew up blankets to cover his prone form.

As Theon turned to leave, Stannis stopped him. “I gave no permission for you to go.”

Theon stood and waited for another order, but the king said nothing further. It took a while him to decide what the king had intended for him to do, but then Theon started to strip. Although he was quick about it, the king was almost asleep when Theon climbed omto the bed and lay down on his stomach. He waited for Stannis to move, but when that did not happen, Theon supported his weight on one arm and leaned over to look at the king. 

Stannis’ gaze was unfocused, near asleep. For a moment, he appeared to rouse again and made an attempt to reach for Theon. 

Theon snorted. “Impressive. But I believe not.” There was no chance that the king would be up to fucking him, and they both knew it. “I better leave.”

“No,” the king said. 

“If you want me to stay, just say so.” 

But Stannis’ eyes were already closed, and no reply came. 

_All right, then. Might as well make the best of it._ Theon slid under the blankets, quietly, and edged as close as he could without actually instigating contact. He lay in the darkness for a moment, listening to the king’s soft snores. Because he wanted to, desperately, and could suddenly not recall the reason why not, he turned to his side and nestled closer, until his forehead came to rest against he king’s shoulder. _I am turning into a girl more and more,_ he thought, but was too tired to care. 

~~~~~

He woke from another nightmare thrashing and flailing. It took a while to make sense of his surroundings, and to catch his breath once he realized he was safe. 

It was pitch dark outside, but Stannis sat behind his desk, with two lit candles burning brightly enough to illuminate the parchment he read. 

Theon lay back, eyes open and glad for the light that made it clear that he was in the king’s chambers, not in Ramsay’s, with Jeyne, listening to her helpless cries. “She always cried. I don’t think she cries anymore.”

The king lifted his head. “Whatever are you mumbling about?”

“Does one cry in heaven?”

“I would not know. Why do you believe there is a heaven at all?”

“If there were none...”

“Even if there were, I doubt you would be welcome,” Stanis replied offhandedly, stating a fact. He got up from behind the desk and went to the bed. He only wore a dressing gown and shed it at the foot of the bed. He slid under the covers, and if his intent had not been obvious, Theon would have known by the gleam in his eyes what he had come for.

He made ready to turn around, but Stannis stopped him. “No. Do not move.”

Stannis moved over him, supporting his weight on his arms and knees, and watched him closely. He lifted a hand and traced the outline of Theon’s face with callused fingers. The careful touch became an exploration, and Theon tried to stay still beneath him and conceal the trembling. 

Then the fingers touched the soft hollow on his throat, under the larynx. Theon closed his eyes. 

“Look at me,” Stannis demanded. His hand went lower, stroking down Theon’s chest, then up again, over his left shoulder, along his arm. He grasped Theon’s wrist and pulled his arm up, up and higher, until it was stretched out over his head. When he repeated the movement on Theon’s other side – a careful stroke downward – his thumb grazed Theon’s nipple, and Theon jerked, the contact like a tiny surge. His breath went faster as Stannis brought up his right arm, too, and seized both wrists with one hand, keeping them pinned to the pillow.

The king stared down on him with dark eyes. “Do you like that?”

Theon nodded. 

The king smiled. “Have I found a way to silence you after all?” 

Theon opened his mouth for an immediate reply, but Stannis tightened his hold on his wrists and shook his head. “One word, and you will regret it.”

His free hand traced Theon’s face again, the curve of his jaw, the shell of his ear. Theon could not help but lean into his touch. It had been so long, so long... it felt like he had never been touched like this. 

“Like a cat,” the king observed, darkly amused, but did not linger for long.

This side of Stannis was new. Theon did not know what it said about him that he reacted to it so strongly, with an urge to submit. 

Stannis’ hand went even lower, grazing his hipbone, trailing from there to his navel. There the king hesitated, but a moment later his finger trailed up again, to circle around his nipples and squeeze them. 

“Not a woman,” Theon bit out with a hiss, and could see Stannis’ eyebrows rise. 

He should have know better than to provoke the king, he thought and chided himself as Stannis bent his head and bit his nipple, softly. 

Theon arched from the bed and against Stannis, like a whore who was paid for it, and his cock stirred. “No,” he whispered in denial, but could not control his reaction any more than his breath.

Stannis drew gasps and moans from him with his hands and his mouth until Theon was lost in a sensual haze. He had been right: now that Stannis hat set his mind to this, he would prevail, and have from Theon what he wanted.

Theon stopped thinking and gave himself over to it. He spread his legs when Stannis’ thigh pressed between them, and the king settled on top of him, over him. His mouth left a hot, wet trace on Theon’s neck, he bit and licked along his jaw. The kiss, when it came, made Theon close his eyes, ashamed – his missing teeth, it had to feel so different – but the king showed not hesitance and took possession. It was not a smooth kiss, quite far from that, in fact. Stannis bit Theon’s lip and it stung, and his tongue invaded Theon’s mouth and went too far, too soon. Theon turned his head, trying to get free, but the king pinned him down and did not let go. 

“Damn you, turncloak,” the king growled. “Will you just...”

“No,” Theon panted. “No. Not like this.”

“Which way, then?” Stannis asked with exasperation.

“Slower,” Theon whispered. “Slowly. Gently. Let go of me, I will show you.”

Stannis stilled over him, reluctance showing in the rigidness of his body. But he let go of Theon’s wrists and increased the distance between them. 

Theon lifted his hands. careful not to touch Stannis with the stumps, and drew him down, brought their mouths together. _This is how it is done._ He had been a skilled lover before, when he could be bothered to spare consideration for the girl’s needs. It was vastly different, kissing a man, yet the principles were the same: agility of tongue and lips, a slow coaxing rather than a forceful intrusion. Playful, not too serious; insistent, but not obtrusive. Teeth only when appropriate; and even that went better than he had thought. 

Stannis was a fast learner. Soon enough they were both breathless, but Theon could not stop. His cock lay half-hard against his thigh, and the king was heat and a firm presence on top of him. He closed his eyes, dizzy with it, and kept on kissing, licking, sucking on Stannis’ bottom lip until it glistened wetly and swollen, by no means the thin, unrelenting thing it usually was. 

Stannis rocked against him, his cock hard and urgent against Theon’s belly, sliding over his stomach and against the tender flesh. 

Soon the king would want to fuck him. 

Stannis withdrew from their kiss and Theon, tried to follow, tried to capture his mouth again. But Stannis’ hand on his shoulder held him down and kept them both apart. With his other hand Stannis seized Theon’s right wrist and held it in front of him. “Spit on your fingers.”

Theon opened his eyes wide. Gods, but he had hoped... he did not know what he had hoped, only that it seemed foolish now. “May I... may I have some oil?”

“No,” the king said softly. 

Did he want it to hurt?

Theon spat and slowly brought his hand down. He wondered how he would manage from this angle, with the king holding him down. 

As he tried to reach his ass, Stannis’ hand closed around his and guided it to his cock instead.

“No. Just your hand, turncloak.” 

He molded Theon’s finger to form a tight channel and started thrusting, urgently.

It did not take long. Stannis spilled in his hand, slick and warm, and Theon lay there, stunned. The king fell asleep right after, still half on top of him, drooling on his collarbone.

Theon closed his eyes and willed himself to go to sleep.

 

~~~~~

“It can be done in a week.”

“A week? Splendid.” Asha rubbed her hands.

“We have more than enough ivory at hand, His Grace brought it from the Wall.”

“Would gold not be more... suitable?”

“That depends,” the maester said. “Gold works well enough for one tooth or even a couple of them, but since his molars are mostly intact and most of the front teeth are missing, it would look a little odd, if I may say so.”

“But ivory...”

“Will look more natural, my lady”

“Ivory it is, then,” Asha decided. She looked at Theon. “Now be good and show Maester Pylos your teeth, Theon. You may have sweetmeats after.”

“Lady Asha,” the maester said with a certain air of resentment. 

She smiled ruefully. “I do apologize, Maester Pylos, but he behaves quite like a little boy these days.” 

She bared her own teeth, white and strong, to Theon while he glared at her.

“Will you stick out your tongue next?” he muttered.

“If it makes you happy, dearest brother.”

“What would make me happy were for you to leave me alone.”

“If I left you alone, you would never have teeth again.”

“I have teeth. Enough of them to chew, and I bet that these will be more trouble than they are worth.”

The maester cocked his head to the side in a thoughtful manner. “Your brother is right in that they will not do much to help him chew. For the matter of appearance, however, they will do a lot of good.”

Theon had tried to explain it to her, that nobody wanted to look at him anyway, but she refused to listen, pigheaded as she was. She insisted, and prodded, tenacious and annoying as only a sister could be. He should have found comfort in it, but it merely reinforced the knowledge that she was ashamed of him. His missing teeth rarely bothered him. Why would it matter to her how he looked, when she knew better than most that all people saw in him was a murderer, and a traitor? 

Theon had given in just to have her off his back. 

“I still think that gold would be more appropriate for a son of the Iron Isles,” she mused.

Theon snorted. “I have no taste for the iron price anymore, sister.”

Ramsay took their skins at Moat Cailin. He should have given me their jewelry. 

“Sixty-three. Sixty-three, and I only got a skin of wine, and it was sour, sister, I have never tasted a wine so sour.”

Asha looked aside. 

If she believed him mad, she was more likely to leave him alone, at least for a while. Theon had started to pretend, to say the things that came to his head just for the satisfaction of seeing her wince. 

Maester Pylos came with a strange instrument. It looked a little like a vice. 

“The king will be so grateful,” Theon sing-songed. “He likes me pre-he-hetty.”

With a muttered curse, Asha left him to his fate.

~~~~~

The teeth had yet to be carved, but the maester had fitted the braces. It had hurt a lot, and Theon left the infirmary tense and unhappy. At least he did not need to report back to Ser Cobb. Either because Snow had spoken for him, or Stannis’ knights were needed for other purposes than shepherding him around the castle, Theon was now allowed to walk around unguarded. Nobody harassed him, but nobody spoke to him either. He liked to walk in the godswood. The glass gardens had never been rebuilt, although Snow planned it. Lacking the means to do so, he would have to wait until the Dreadfort was taken and Bolton’s fortune shared between the king and Winterfell. The king planned to march there next. After Roose’s death, the men remaining there would likely surrender, but with or without a battle, the Dreadfort had to be taken.

As he went across the yard, Theon overheard some of Stannis’ men talking about it. Others discussed Snow’s plans to send out patrols north to look out for the wildlings and offer them a treaty. Most of Stannis’s men agreed that it was a foolish and dangerous thing to do. The northerners showed their disapproval – and that the disapproved could not be denied – less openly, reluctant to criticize their new lord. 

Two servant girls stood at the secluded corner between the kitchen and the stables, whispering about the Lady Melisandre, and how the king kept her out of his solar and refused her counsel. They wondered: if the queen, whose condition became more dire every day, died, would the red priestess become Stannis’ new wife? 

Theo ignored them all and was ignored in turn. He felt strangely unsettled. Snow’s arrival had brought a change, but for better or worse, Theon could not tell. Snow took his time to settle in the role of the regent, spoke with his lords and knights, but also with the castle’s servants and the commoners. All under the watchful eye of the king, who barely said a word whenever Snow made a decision. 

And decisions he made. Lacking his own guard, he had taken on men-at-arms of his lieges, those who could be spared, young enough to adapt to their new service, old enough to remember well how the north had been ruled by Lord Eddard before the war. He had sent out scouts to the Wall, to look for wildlings and offer them the lands and peace of Winterfell. He talked to his lords and listened to their concerns, used what skill he had honed to placate them, even Lady Barbrey, who was gleefully harping on about the fact that he was a Snow, not a Stark. Snow asked for counsel when he needed it, but he made sure he knew enough of the topic at hand that they could not fool him. He avoided Lady Melisandre the same way Stannis did and treated the queen’s men with a cool courtesy. 

Lost in thought Theon went to the godswood again. He came there every other day, enjoying the peace and quiet. Nobody disturbed him there. He avoided the heart tree and went to the hot pools instead, where he took off his clothes and washed himself, short and perfunctorily, and glad for the protection of the everlasting mist and the sturdy trees that sheltered him from sight. He hated to take off his clothes where anyone could see him. 

Back in the village the maester had told him he was expected to keep himself clean, but on their trip to Winterfell that had been hard to accomplish. It meant scrubbing himself down with snow, shivering in the cold, hidden between trees behind the latrines where he could stay unnoticed for a few moments. 

He did not stay long. In his youth he had enjoyed the hot springs, strutting around naked and unconcerned, sharing a bath with some fellows he had sparred with or a willing servant girl. Provocative, even, daring anyone to say something about it.

Now cleaning had become a mere necessity. He could not enjoy it, not when he still felt like Ramsay could see him, and cringed at the thought of what it meant: his master’s disapproval. 

Theon dressed again. He was on his way back to the castle when when he heard low voices in the distance. He rose to his feet and hid behind a moss-covered wall. 

He heard the hinges of the main iron gates that led to the godswood from the courtyard, and steps of two men on freshly fallen snow. They trod on the main path that led right to the heart tree. As they passed him, Theon could see their backs. Snow, and the king. 

The white direwolf strolled behind them. He paused on the path as he sensed Theon’s presence, and looked at him curiously, showing no sign of aggression. He had not so much as growled at him since the first day. 

Theon silently left his hiding place. He wanted to leave the godswood before they saw him or Ghost revealed his presence. He had no wish to encounter them now. Was it not enough that the bastard was, in fact, if not in name, Lord of Winterfell? Seeing him reminded Theon of so many things, too many to name them all, and most of them were part of a life that had irrevocably changed, torn apart in the war that had started when a tower burned and a young boy escaped a Lannister knife. 

Theon hesitated in front of the gates. His curiosity got the better of him, and he turned around and took another path that led in a wide sweep around the pools, the wall of the guest house and the armory, and went from there to the clearing with the heart tree and the black pool beneath. Theon followed the path until he could see both Stannis and Snow, still hidden from sight and hopefully unnoticed.

Snow stood in front of the pool and stared at the black water. 

“I am glad Your Grace stopped the pyres,” he said. “It is not the way of Westeros.”

“My knights do not share your sentiment, Lord Snow. They follow _her_ and the Lord of Light with more eagerness and devotion than they ever bestowed on me.”

“Does it pose a threat to you, to abandon her cause?”

“Are you asking me whether I need to fear for mutiny?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“There is always the peril of an uprising to consider in the time of war, but I am well aware of that, and prepared to keep a tight leash on the queen’s men. Yes, Snow, I know they are called that. It would be more fitting to speak of zealous imbeciles who have fallen prey to a temptress and her vices. A definition that, before you ask, would include me as well.” The words were spoken with bitterness.

“Your Grace is too hard on yourself.” 

“Save your condescension, Lord Snow,” Stannis snapped. “If I wished for your opinion, I would ask for it.”

“I did not mean to patronize, Your Grace, but...”

“Then stop talking about matters that you know nothing about.”

Snow laughed at that, a weirdly sad sound that broke off after a moment. 

“I apologize, Your Grace. Your words reminded me of someone who told me nearly the same.”

“Who?” Stannis asked. 

“Ygritte. The woman who... I broke my vows with her.”

“So you said.”

Snow smiled a little. “She always told me I knew nothing. Maybe she was right.”

“You are young,” Stannis said after a while. “You mean well.”

“Yes, but meaning well is not enough, as you said yourself, Your Grace.”

Stannis snorted in amusement. “I dared not to hope you would listen.”

“I always do.”

“Yes, but do you obey?” Stannis asked, and added, dryly, “Better not answer that, Lord Snow.”

Jon grinned at the king, a wry curling of his mouth, there and gone in a moment.

The king shook his head. “You are playing coy with me. Cease that, it will not bring you the men you ask for.”

“I did not aim for that,” Snow protested, sounding oddly hurt.

“Then what do you intend by your sweet-talking?”

Snow’s reply held a note of exasperation. “I intend nothing.”

“Then kindly stop trying to make light of the guilt I bear.”

What did the king refer to? Why would he feel guilty? Was he still talking about Lady Melisandre? Theon could not tell. 

Snow, too, seemed at a loss for what to say, opened his mouth and closed it again. The king stared at him, then abruptly turned away and changed the topic.

“This tree has an ugly face.”

That made Snow laugh. “As a child I was scared of it.” 

“I bet. I bet you were a right brat as a boy.” 

“That is my brother Your Grace is talking about. Robb was the rascal, everyone knows that.”

 _What are they doing?_ Theon wondered numbly. He had never heard the king take that special tone of voice before, a mixture of fondness and exasperation, almost soft, almost... 

_Playful._

_They are playing._

_They are playing with each other, and they don’t even realize it. Oh, that is priceless._

It made sense. Snow clearly wanted to impress the king, longed for his approval. There was a measure of protectiveness in his words as well, and a whole lot of unacknowledged admiration. 

As for Stannis... Snow was the kind of man the king respected, albeit reluctantly. Snow shared qualities that the king possessed himself: a keen mind, strength of character, a sense of justice. He was also loyal and honorable and kind-hearted to a fault, and even though Stannis declared the latter a weakness, he still appreciated it in others. And Snow was beautiful. One had to be blind not to see it. The king was not blind, far from it. 

_Of course,_ Theon thought, and nothing more. He turned, and walked back to the gates as fast as he could.

~~~~~

That night, when the king called for him, Theon considered for the first time to refuse. But it was only a brief thought, a boy’s defiance against a man’s acceptance of the inevitable. He steeled himself against anything, or so he thought, until he entered the solar and found Stannis engaged in a a conversation with the red priestess. If one could call it that. Both stood at the window to the courtyard and seemed oblivious to his presence even as the door fell shut. 

“... the victory at the Wall. Without the Lord of Light, you could not have prevailed. R’hllor’s fires came over your enemies, and burned them with the wrath of God.”

The king was in a darker mood than Theon had seen him in for a long time. “It is enough,” he said, and there was malice in his voice, true malice, with the promise of violence. “You will cease this sermon. I have listened to you for the longest time, and my patience wears thin. Can you heal Selyse, or can you not?”

“It is not that easy. My powers –”

“I offered you of mine own blood.”

“I have drawn of your power too many times, Your Grace. If you gave me a true sacrifice -”

“Who do you have in mind, pray tell?”

Lady Melisandre turned on her heels and looked directly at Theon. 

Theon, who had desperately hoped to be ignored, cringed.

“Balon Greyjoy was an ursuper.”

“And yet the Greyjoys descend from a line of kings.” She pulled her hair back behind her ears and regarded Theon with eyes that were chilled and fiery at the same time. “Give him to R’hllor, and I will heal your queen. His blood will wash the taint off you.”

“Which taint?”

She turned to Stannis. “The taint you soiled yourself with, my king. Men who lie with other men are a disgrace to R’hllor, committing a most repulsive sin.”

“Worse than those of a kinslayer and an adulterer? You made me both”

“Renly’s death was R’hllor’s doing.”

“Answer me, my lady,” Stannis said, and his voice was so harsh, it sounded like grinding stone. “Which is the more grievous sin?”

“R’hllor created women and men, one for the other, and filled their hearts with the flame of life. They burn brighter with desire and feed each other in turn, as they are different in nature. A woman’s flame is the one that kindles and gives birth, holds the ember and shares its warmth. A man’s flame is that of the wildfire, a force thrown against enemies, the fire of war and battle, burning brightly and fiercely. Where men turn toward other men, their flames rage out of control and destroy each other and everything else in their path, until all that remains are the ashes of their souls.”

 _That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever._ Theon slowly backed off and looked for a place to hide. _And they call **me** a madman._

The king seemed to think likewise. “I will no longer listen to this. There will be no sacrifices, not even to heal Selyse.”

“Then your queen will surely die, and the weight of her death will bear down on your shoulders, Stannis Baratheon. It is your sins that poison her blood, your rejection of God.”

“That appears to be a poor thing for a God to do, to punish her for my sins.”

“Yet it is always so, that our transgressions make others suffer.”

“Save your breath, my lady. I will hear no more of your preaching. Go and tend to the queen.”

“I will do what I can, as Her Grace is a true faithful servant of God.” With that, Lady Melisandre curtseyed, and left the room.

Stannis’ gaze fell on Theon. “You heard her words, turncloak. What do you think of her counsel?”

Theon swallowed. “Either way, she will win. If the queen lives, it will be the will of R’hllor, God’s mercy. If the queen dies, it will be your fault. As long as your men listen to her, she can twist it the way she likes, and they will believe it. Yet...”

“Yet?”

“If you will not burn me, she has more to gain from the queen’s death. If your men believe you were punished for disregarding her counsel, they will flock to her side even more zealously.” 

“True. Should I burn you, then? According to her, a word given to a traitor must no be honored.”

Although Stannis made no move to seize him and take him to the stake, Theon crossed his arms across his chest, fingers digging into flesh, and gave no reply, which turned out to be the right decision after a moment when the king answered the question himself. 

“It would weaken my position. Weaken it in her eyes, and my men’s. More proof that I draw my strength from her, and that it is she who orders, and I who obeys.”

Theon had known that the king held little regard for his feelings or his fate, apart from the fact that Stannis still wanted to make use of his body, but to hear it confirmed once again, in that callous voice, sent a shiver along his spine. The king’s lust and, now, his strategic considerations were all that kept him alive. 

Alive. Breathing, and able to walk around, to eat and shit and sleep when the nightmares let him. 

Once the king found someone else to share his bed – _brave, loyal, beautiful_ – Theon was of more use to him as a means to placate his red priestess. Or maybe Stannis would actually keep his word and send him to the Wall. But why would he, if Theon made such a convenient sacrifice?

_The day he fucks Snow is the day I will die._

_Well, that’s good to know._

“Do you know what the septons teach about men who bed other men?”

Theon could not keep up with the king’s line of thought. “What? Why”

Stannis did not explain his question further, waiting for an answer with his usual air of impatience. 

“They... they say that men who prefer men spurn the Maiden and the Mother,” Theon said with reluctance.

“What do your Drowned Men say about it?”

“Not much. Men are expected to take wives to bear their children and rule over their hearth and home. A man may take a young man or a boy in stead of a salt wife, yet only if it is a green lander.”

“Why is that?”

“It is... it is regarded as shameful, taking a woman’s place in bed. An ironborn would not disgrace another so.”

“Yet the one who takes the man’s place does no fault?”

“No.”

The king’s eyes glittered with malice. Theon looked away from him. 

“How are they called, those men that are taken as prey?”

“Salt boys,” Theon whispered. 

“What would that make you, as you are ironborn, but still the one taken?”

“I don’t know.” Theon wanted to cry, and it took all his remaining strength not to do it. He did not know how much more he could bear. This deliberate cruelty was no more than he deserved and Ramsay had said worse things to him, he reminded himself. 

“Come here,” the king ordered. “Put your hands on the window-sill. Spread your legs.” He seemed to enjoy giving the orders, as if Theon did not know what to do by now.

As the king pushed in, he forced Theon’s head up, so he could look at the courtyard through the glass. 

“Look,” he demanded, punctuating it with a vicious thrust. “You know where the stake was, turncloak. Look at the ashes. Tell me why I should not burn you there as well.” 

Theon obeyed, watching the place where the traces of the pyre could still be seen beneath the snow.

_I should have died there. Ramsay wanted me there._

No one else had ever wanted him. Not Lord Eddard, who had children of his own and no need of a ward. Not even Robb, who had preferred Jon over him, and Jon had never liked Theon at all.  
Certainly not his father, disappointed by him, by the stranger from the green lands that was no longer his son. His sister only despised and pitied him.

And Stannis... no, the king did not want him any more than those others.

_At least Ramsay wanted me. I could have died at his feet, the last of his loyal dogs._

Theon closed his eyes and kept silent; not a sound escaped his lips. _It will be over soon._

~~~~~

He walked. It was cold, and he walked, and he did not know where he was, or how he had gotten here. He had left the king’s solar, and his feet had carried him. It was so peaceful outside. Cold, yes, but silent, and he walked until he could not move anymore, and had to sit down and rest. He was alone, but would not be for much longer: the cold had come to keep him company, and the dark would soon be there, soon, her sweet sister. He thought of Asha’s smile and Robb’s auburn hair. His mothers dressing gown, when she had come to look after him at night and given him warm milk after his nightmare. _Mother... I wish I could have seen you again._ It was of no use. A great lassitude had taken over his limbs. Where would he go? The Drowned God’s hall was reserved for warriors, for true ironborn who died at ocean, where salty air filled their lungs when they drew their last breath.

 _It is so cold. Now it gets dark, too, and I wish..._ so many things, too many to name them all.

Theon closed his eyes and welcomed the cold.


	17. Jon IV

A light sleeper these days, Jon was woken by a muffled argument outside his bedroom. Ghost, who had taken up residence on a pillow next to the fireplace, lifted his head from his paws. 

Jon could hear a furious woman’s voice, and a harsh, hostile reply from one of his guards. He rose from the bed, pulled on a shirt and drew Longclaw before he went to the door. Ghost, however, showed no inclination to move, and Jon shot him a curious glance. 

When he opened the door, he saw Lady Asha standing in front of it. She was fully dressed, and her eyes were wide and livid. Anger, and something else Jon could not name, radiated from her like like heat from a fire. 

“No,” the guard, a young man called Eddard after Jon’s own father, protested. “Lord Snow, I apologize. I told her to go away, but she refuses to listen.” He glared at Lady Asha. 

“Lord Snow, I must needs speak with you,” Asha said in an urgent tone. “Please, I beg you.”

Jon felt the exhaustion weighing on him. He had been asleep for only an hour or two. He rubbed his eyes and forehead with one hand. “Can it not wait until the morrow?”

She opened her mouth to protest, and as Jon looked at her more closely, the look on her face seemed frightened rather than angry. 

“You heard my lord’s words,” the other guard, Hansen, said to Asha, and seized her arm to hold her back when she tried to approach Jon. “Go back to your rooms, my lady, or we will take you to the dungeons instead.”

“No,” Jon said. “No. My lady, what I said was beyond excuse. I know you would not disturb me for no good reason.” He said it more to chastise his guards than to apologize. “What it is, Lady Asha?”

“My brother. Theon is missing, he went outside and has not returned.”

“Outside?”

“He left the castle, hours ago. The guards will not let me pass to search for him.”

That made little and less sense to Jon. “Why would he do that? And why was he permitted to go at all?”

“The guards saw no reason to hold him back. They said they had no notion of him being a prisoner, but that I was one, and therefore could not leave, not even to look for him. I don’t know why he did it. He was summoned by the king in the evening, and the guards reported that he went from the king’s solar to the south gate without further delay, talking to no-one. Those who saw him said that he looked as if he were asleep. He has been gone for three hours now, and nobody listens to me. They will not look for him, nor tell the king.”

Jon cursed. He went back into his room and laced up his shirt. “Eddard, have my horse saddled and led to the front door. Send for Duncan and Wendel.” They were his best scouts, huntsmen from the mountain clans. “We need torches and ropes, and waterskins filled with hot wine. I need blankets, and a spare horse.”

He put on his boots. Lady Asha hovered at the doorstep. “You need more men, to form patrols.”

“No,” Jon said. “I have Ghost. If Ghost cannot find him, nobody will. Theon knows the lands around Winterfell better than anyone, better even than me; if he hides, no patrol will find him, and we have no trained hound dogs here. Hansen, once we are gone, wake Maester Pylos; tell him to prepare to treat a case of frostbite. Have Greyjoy’s quarter readied, with a fire and a warmed bed.”

“He sleeps on a pallet in an alcove,” Asha informed him coolly. 

Jon looked at her while he buttoned up his cloak, but he had no time to demand an explanation. “Then find a room for him. If you can’t find one, use mine.” 

He put on the harness and sheathed Longclaw. Gloves and his scarf came next. Ghost sprang to his side. “We need to find Theon,” he told the direwolf. “ _Theon._ You remember him, and you know his scent. Stay close.”

The guards were gone, hopefully following his orders. Asha accompanied him and Ghost on the way to the ground floor and the gates of the great keep. “Let me come with you,” she begged. 

“I cannot. You are the king’s hostage, not mine. I promise you, I will bring him back.” _Dead or alive,_ he did not say, but assumed that she knew. “Stay here, wait for our return. Pray.” 

He mounted his horse, an ugly brown gelding. Duncan and Wendel were at his side moments later, confused and yawning, but ready to go. “We ride. Ghost, lead the way.”

~~~~~

They rode through darkness and wind. The crescent moon was covered by clouds, and the only light they had were their torches, casting a flickering light on the landscape. It was a dangerous way to ride, the ground treacherous and rough. More than a slow trot was out of the question. Ghost went ahead, following a trail that went straight south. At least there were no woods in the south, only the wide lowlands with their fields and pastures, and leagues and leagues of land. 

The trail was not difficult to follow. Theon had walked south, making no attempt to reach the kingsroad that ran further to the east. It made no sense at all, why would he walk out of the castle like that? If he wanted to escape, there were better ways to achieve it; ways that included a horse, proper winter gear, and hunting trails in the Wolfswood that Theon, who had been so skilled a hunter, knew better than anyone else.

In the end it was, of course, Ghost who found him, a lump in the snow beneath a bush that they would never have seen otherwise. The direwolf went straight to it, nosed and pawed at it, then lifted his head for a soundless howl.

Jon dismounted and knelt down beside the dark shape. His hands touched fur, cloth, and a cold body below.

~~~~~

“He will not lose any limbs,” the maester told them. “Yet he needs a few days of rest in a warm bed, with regular meals brought to him, diluted mulled wine, to assure he will not suffer from a lung fever the way the queen does. A hot bath would certainly do no harm, but only here where he can avoid the draft.”

He had finished his examination and put away his tools. “Apart from that, he is fine.”

The lack of an answer only seemed to strike him after he had pulled up the blankets and carefully covered Theon from head to toe.

“Yes, my lord?” he asked when Jon and Asha only stared at him. 

“The scars...” Asha forced out after a moment. “They are...”

“The scars are too old. I am afraid I can do nothing for those.” 

“The letter...”

“Cannot be removed. I know of some men who had a scar like that and decided to change it into a different design of their own making, which should be done only by someone who has learned the craft.”

Jon cleared his throat. “The bruises. How...”

Maester Pylor shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. They will heal on their own.”

“But how...”

“It is nothing more than can be expected, under the circumstances,” Maester Pylos said. His voice was carefully neutral.

“I don’t understand. Who did this to him?”

Maester Pylos looked straight at Jon, for the first time since his arrival, and for a moment it seemed as if he wanted to say something. Instead he shook his head and went on storing away his instruments. “Once he comes to, he should have a little milk of the poppy, and hot broth.”

Jon still stared at him. 

Asha laughed, a harsh, unforgiving sound. “The king did that, Lord Snow.”

Jon froze. 

“Yes, that is right. Stannis, the Saint. He rapes my brother, day after day.”

The maester visibly cringed, but did not argue the point, and for a moment Jon felt as if he needed to throw up.

He should have seen it before: hand-shaped, bruises, all over Theon’s hips and thighs, some older, some fresh. Counterparts on his front, where he had been pushed against a sharp edge repeatedly. At his wrists, too, deep purple circles where he had been held down. _Held down, and fucked hard from behind,_ a voice in his head said.

Asha said nothing more. She sat down on the bed after the maester had left, taking one of Theon’s limp hands in hers, the left one, where two fingers were missing. Jon could tell that she was close to tears. She touched the knuckles – scraped and scabbed – and bowed her head.

“This must stop,” Jon said and barely recognized his own voice. “Whatever he has done, this is too much. This...”

“I offered a ransom. I offered... other things, too. The king refused.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon said again. “Stannis is a decent man. A good king...”

“Decent?” she said, and he winced at the sound of her voice. “Really? He hides that well.”

Jon could say nothing to that.

“Theon is my only remaining brother,” Asha said after a while. “He had been gone for so long, I hardly recognized him at first. He had become such a _twat_.” 

Jon raised his eyebrows, more amused than scandalized to hear such a curse word from her. 

“When he met our father, he tried too hard to impress him. Wagging his tail like a puppy. My father did not like it, not at all. Theon wore the wrong things, said the wrong words, made the wrong suggestions. I do not know, what did father expect, that the green lands would teach Theon the ways of the ironborn?” 

She smiled a little. “He was so self-assured, such a bragger, I wanted him to go right back where he came from.” 

“I know what you mean,” Jon said. 

She shot him a rueful glance. “Yes, I thought you might.” She put Theon’s hand back down on the blanket gently. “As it turns out, brothers stay brothers, no matter what they do. You could throttle them at least twice a day, but...”

 _Brothers stay brothers._ Jon looked at Theon, who lay there still and unmoving. Asha was right, he had been a twat more often than not. And still... for Jon, he belonged to Winterfell the same way Robb and Sansa and the others did. 

One could quarrel with their siblings and still love them. He had never been overly fond of Theon, and yet... he felt a certain kind of kinship now. If Theon had actually murdered Bran and Rickon, it would have been different, but as it was... _he did some terrible things. But I wish he could come back from that._

He remembered with sudden clarity the day Theon had taught him to shoot a bow. They had been in the yard, and Robb, impatient as he was, had put aside the bow after three missed shots with open contempt. “I prefer to slay my enemies with a real weapon.” 

Meaning a sword, and Ser Rodrik shook his head with dismay, but let him have his way.

But Jon had taken up the bow again and aimed for the target. He remembered Theon’s voice close to his ear. “Hold steady, Snow. Draw back, breathe, aim, losen.” And again, and again. Until his arms trembled with the strain, and his arrows missed the target by a foot. 

“That is enough for today,” Theon had said, and Jon, predictably, protested. “I am not tired.”

“Yes, you are. The bow will be here, waiting for you. It won’t run away at night. If you are patient and do as I tell you, you may have one made for yourself in a week or two.”

He looked at Theon suspiciously. “Really?”

Theon rolled his eyes. “Promise. Now run, it’s dinner time. Lady Catelyn will not like it if you are late again.”

Theon had kept his promise, and Jon got his bow a month before Robb was even allowed to use real arrows. Lady Catelyn had not liked it, but Theon had nodded at Jon with reluctant approval. “You are not half bad with a longbow, Snow, I have to give you that.”

Jon had never been as good as Theon.

Theon, who would never shoot a bow again.

“He has endured enough,” Asha said. “I wish I could take him home.”

“What fate would await him there? Your uncle is king there now, what would he do if Theon returned and claimed the throne?”

“There is no throne to claim. Pyke, the Seastone Chair: they mean nothing. The kingsmoot chose my uncle for a king, and now he wears the Driftwood Crown on his ugly head. Theon would have to slay him, but ironborn shall not spill the blood of ironborn, and even so... Euron Greyjoy is not easily vanquished. Theon does not have the allegiance of our people, and after what happened, I am afraid he never will. If he went back to Pyke, he would have much to answer for – Moat Cailin, for once. There is no place for him on the Iron Isles.”

She looked down at Theon. “To say it bluntly, my nuncles would eat him alive and spit out the fish bones later.”

“Yours seems like an interesting family.”

“Not more so than others, I should think. Be that as it may. Lord Snow, I am in your debt. After all he has done, you still rode out to look for him, and brought him back alive. Others would have found it merely convenient that he should choose to freeze to death, seeing that the king refused to take his head off. I cannot tell why you did it, but I thank you nonetheless.”

Had Theon told her that he had not killed Bran and Rickon? It seemed not. Jon considered telling her, but decided against it. It was no certainty after all that his brothers were still alive, and Theon _had_ killed two little boys.

Theon stirred. While they waited for him to wake up, Jon absent-mindedly noticed that his hair started to grow back dark at the roots. He still looked nowhere near his old self. Too thin, too old. When he opened his eyes, they were the same bright blue Jon remembered from their youth, not as pale as Jon’s, not as dark as the King’s. But as soon as Theon had regained consciousness and taken in his surroundings, Jon’s presence and his sister’s, the color of his eyes dulled to a muted pigeon blue, as if a veil had been drawn over it.

“Snow. Of course. You could not let me be, could you?”

Before Jon could reply, Asha intervened. “What has he done to you? The king? What happened, to make you act so foolish?”

“Foolish, sister? I think not,” Theon said with a flat voice. He turned to the side and curled into himself under the blanket

“I have seen the bruises on your skin.”

At that, Theon raised his eyebrows. “Those? They are nothing. Nothing at all.”

“How can you say that?” she wished to know, with an angry undertone.

“Have you never borne similar marks, sister? Then clearly Quarl has not done it right.”

Asha blushed at that, and for a moment seemed not to know what to say. Jon fought against a similar embarrassment and hoped it was not as visible on his skin as on hers. He coughed and avoided looking at her. 

“If not that, what made you do it? Had it not been for Lord Snow and his direwolf, you would be dead.”

“There is your answer.” Theon closed his eyes again.

“Theon.”

But Theon did not react. He trembled beneath the blankets, as sign that his body slowly adjusted to the state of wakefulness and needed to . 

Jon and Asha watched in silence. Theon was pale and unresponsive, far away in his mind, and suddenly Jon could not stand it anymore. “Why would you want to die? The Theon I remember was many things, but he was no craven.” 

Theon slowly turned his head and opened his eyes to look at him. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Why did you bring me back?” Theon asked with real curiosity.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I am not so sure.”

A smile quirked at the corner of Theon’s mouth. “Honesty, at last. Did my sister ask you to?”

“Yes. But even if she had not, I would have come regardless.”

“Snow, noble as always.”

“Will you stop that?” Asha said sharply, addressing Theon rather than Jon, but with a warning glance at him, too. “I am going to fetch your hot broth, Theon, and you better be ready to drink it, or I will personally force it down your throat.”

With a last contemptuous glare at her brother she went to the door, but just as she put her hand on the handle, it was opened from the outside. 

Asha took a step backward as the king entered the room. She hissed like a furious cat. “What do _you_ want?” 

From the hallway, standing behind Stannis, Eddard threw Jon an apologetic glance and shrugged. Jon merely nodded at him. Of course it was impossible for a common guardsman to keep the king from entering.

Stannis stared at Asha, his eyes as cold as those of the wights. “You forget yourself, Lady Asha. You will address me as is proper.”

Jon hoped her anger would not let her lose all sense of propriety. He stood and took a few steps to take a knee where she could see it, hoping she would belatedly follow his example.

Stannis stared at her. She stared back and did not so much as incline her head.

Jon gave Eddard a terse nod. Thankfully the guard caught the hint and closed the door. Jon exhaled with relief. Maybe Stannis would let it go if no witnesses were present.

“You will show me your reverence, Lady Asha.”

 _So much for that._

“No. You do not deserve it.” 

“Do you wish to be fettered and chained to the pillory? It can be arranged. Bow to me. Now.”

“Do it, sister,” came a quiet voice from the bed.

At once Asha looked at Theon, stricken and unhappy. 

Stannis stood waiting, and every passing moment made it worse. 

“Lady Asha,” Jon said. _Do not give the king any more reason to loathe you._

“Fine,” she said abruptly, and curtseyed. “Your Grace.”

Stannis held her gaze until she also bowed her head, baring her vulnerable neck as the short hair parted and fell to both sides.

“I will let this go once, and only once. Now leave, before I change my mind.”

She was visibly torn between her wish to protest and the common sense that told her to obey. Yet she followed Stannis’ command at last and left. The door fell shut behind her, and only then Stannis spoke. 

“Seeing as it is your room, Lord Snow, I have no right to ask you to leave, yet you would certainly do me a favor if you did.”

Jon felt weirdly unsettled by the words, and as he returned the king’s gaze, feelings blended together in his mind. 

Reluctance to leave, out of concern for Theon.

The wish to know what had transpired between Theon and Stannis, and what the king had come for.

Hurt, because the tentative understanding that had developed between him and Stannis now seemed like a delusion on Jon’s part, too frail to extend to the course of recent events.

Hope and fear, because he wished desperately that everything had been a misunderstanding, that Stannis had not treated Theon as cruelly as it seemed, and was afraid it had not been, and Asha’s assessment was right.

Jealousy, because there was a part of Stannis’ life Jon had no part of, something the king shared with Theon alone, and disturbing as it was, Jon did not like it. He wanted to know. Wanted to know whether Stannis truly preferred men in his bed, and what he did with them, and how.

Blood rushed to his face, and he averted his eyes. _I need to go. Now._ Jon left, silently, his heart beating so fast he was sure Stannis could hear it from the distance.


	18. Theon IX

If there had ever been a moment when Theon had wanted to be in the king’s presence less, he could not remember it. 

As Stannis took a step toward the bed. Theon found that he wanted to hide, and since it was not possible, he felt his mind retreat to the same place it had been when he had walked out into the snow.

He lay on his side, and thought he should possibly get up and on his knees as well, but he could not move any more than he could hold the king’s gaze.

_Reek, reek, it rhymes with weak._

_Weak. Pathetic. Can you not even die like a man?_

Stannis crossed his arms behind his back. He held himself very still.

“I was mad,” he said. “It is no excuse; I owe you none. Still... I regret my behavior. My anger was directed at the Lady Melisandre, and I let it out on you. The Baratheon temper can be vicious, and I am no saint.”

Theon listened, but said nothing, and Stannis did not seem to expect a reply. “I came to assure you that I will honor our agreement, and keep true to my word. I swear it to you as Stannis Baratheon, rightful king of Westeros, by my mother’s name and the honor of my house.”

“How much longer?” Theon asked softly. “How much longer will you have me, when it is someone else you want?” 

“There is no one else.”

_You are a blind fool. I am not sure what is worse: that you lie to me, or that you do are not even aware of it._

Theon took a deep breath. It hurt a little deep down in his throat. “I have three conditions.”

“Do you, now?” 

Was it amusement in Stannis’ voice? Theon almost wished he could feel anger, anything else but the numbness that filled his mind. “You will call me Theon. Not turncloak, not Greyjoy, Theon.”

“I can do that.”

“You will forgive my sister’s trespass.”

“Not so easily done. I will, however, take effort to not hold it against her, provided she behaves herself in the future. What else?”

“Do not hurt me on purpose. You need not tell me what I am, and what I did; I know that. I know what you think of me. But it was your decision to fuck me, not the other way round. You did not leave me much of a choice. It is not my fault if your red priestess disapproves of your tastes, or that people look at you sideways because of them. It is not my fault that your men do not cheer for you like they did for your brother, and scatter rose petals at your feet.”

Another breath, and he could continue. “I do not mind being fucked, I do not mind the bruises. But, Your Grace, use the grease when you do it, every time.”

If Stannis wanted to hit him, punish him, renege on his promise, now was the time to find out. But the king did nothing of the sort, just looked at him with those blazing eyes. “Aye.”

All was said and done, then, and Theon closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep now. He shivered with cold and curled tighter in himself.

The king said nothing further and went to the door. 

“I know it now,” Theon said. 

“Know what?”

“The answer to your question.” _What would that make you?_

It was apparent that Stannis did not know what he was talking about, and Theon smiled at him and explained. “It makes me a whore.”


	19. Stannis VI

_It makes me a whore._

_No,_ Stannis thought. _No, turncloak, you are not. Whores choose to do this. You never did._

What that made of him, he knew, and the ugly word echoed in his head in Lady Asha’s voice. _Rapists are punished with a gelding in your army._

 _I ought to let him go. It would be the right thing to do._ Stannis had always done the right thing, had he not? 

_You have not, and you know it._

_Renly._

His brother, whom he had protected and kept safe and held in his arms at night in Storm’s End, when the hunger became too great to bear. They had given the boy all they could spare, and when they could not spare anything anymore, they still gave him all they had. 

First he had cried for more. When the strength had left him, he had clung to Stannis, tiny and miserable, hiding his face in the folds of Stannis’ shirt. He had been only five years old. 

_I could not get rid of him. He refused to sleep with his nurse and climbed in my bed at night, and I had to hold him and tell him tales of the Kingdom of the Stormlands, before the Targaryens had come. I held him and told him tales until I could not speak any more._

_Why do I have to think of it, now, of all times? This man has nothing in common with Renly._

He looked at Greyjoy, who was shivering slightly beneath the blankets. The smile had fallen from his face, his eyes were closed, and he looked lost. 

_He looks like Renly did when he had settled at my side, waiting for me to gather him in my arms, because he knew even then that I hated to be touched without permission._

Instead of leaving, as he had planned to do, Stannis barred the door from within. He silently returned to the bed and bent down to take off his boots. 

“What are you doing?” Greyjoy whispered.

Stannis gritted his teeth. He would not explain himself. “Move aside.”

Greyjoy failed to obey, and Stannis simply lifted the blankets to slide underneath. Greyjoy cringed, and Stannis almost snarled at him and only just controlled himself. He pulled Greyjoy closer, against his chest, and felt the chill of his body, the constant trembling. “Lay still,” Stannis told him. Greyjoy gave a disbelieving snort, one of those half-laughs that were mostly directed at the things Stannis did that seemed to astonish him. His body relaxed gradually against Stannis, and his breath came fast and shallow.

The strangeness of it all felt surreal. _Is that me in this bed, offering comfort to a man who turned his cloak not one but many times? Is that me who raped him and drove him into the snow and now tries to console him?_

_Is that me, holding vigil for another man while my wife lies sick, and my only child sits anxiously at her side?_

His hand tightened on the turncloak’s shoulder, and Greyjoy made a soft sound, but did not pull away.

 _What would Davos say, if he saw me now, neglecting my duty so shamefully?_ The thought was almost too much to bear. Stannis closed his eyes and fought for his composure.

A hand went to rest on his side, lightly, as if Greyjoy expected a rejection. Greyjoy laughed a little. “If only Asha could see this,” he said. 

Stannis opened his eyes to glower at him and looked directly into the turncloak’s gray-blue eyes, saw the lingering strain, the hurt, the self-deprecation. 

He had no wish to know what Greyjoy saw in return.

“You will not tell her,” he clarified, and Greyjoy smiled, the mocking smile which took care not to reveal the ruin the Bastard of Bolton had made of his teeth.

It came literally out of nowhere when Greyjoy kissed him, and Stannis recoiled, caught completely by surprise. Greyjoy followed him, captured his mouth again, a soft, moist tug at his bottom lip. 

“You have to kiss me _back_ ,” Greyjoy pointed out, the same way Renly had said, “But I am still _hungry_ ,” after Stannis had given him half of his own ration already, and it was equally difficult to resist this plea as the other, and easier by far to oblige. 

Stannis groaned and gave in, pulled Greyjoy close and kissed him. It tasted of chill and despair, and Stannis would have none of it, needed it gone, and licked it out of his mouth with the skill he had only recently acquired. Another lesson learned, and there were more to come.

It soon turned heated, with Greyjoy matching him strike for strike. Stannis had already discovered how responsive he was to a gentle touch, helpless against the onslaught of a soft caress, and used it for his own purpose. It did not take long to have Greyjoy naked and writhing underneath him, his face flushed. He made no attempt to escape when Stannis let go of him to take off his shirt and breeches. He helped instead, cursing when the laces refused to untangle, and made short work off it by tearing them apart. 

It seemed fair. More than once Stannis had pulled Greyjoy’s breeches off with equal force. 

Then the clothes were gone and they were naked together, two men who bore the marks of a long winter when it had only just begun, and it did not matter. The chill was gone from Greyjoy’s body, replaced by a feverish flush. 

Stannis had held power over him before, and relished in it, but the way Greyjoy surrendered to his touch now, desperate and yielding, was its own kind of gratification, a pleasure yet unexplored and at least equally satisfying. 

“Yes,” Greyjoy whispered as Stannis tugged at his short hair and tilted his head back so he could kiss him, and bite at his lips. He moaned helplessly. “No. Gods, please.”

Curses and filth spilled from his lips, and he arched under Stannis’ touch, eyes unfocused. 

Stannis sat back on his heels. Greyjoy stared up at him, a protest on his lips, but when Stannis seized his wrists and pulled him up, Greyjoy gasped and came willingly, settling in Stannis’ lap, a heavy weight despite his leanness. 

A smile curved his lips. “Now that is more like it.”

Stannis let his fingers trail down Greyjoy’s spine, counting the knobs. Greyjoys arms came around him. His hands slid over Stannis’ back. 

Stannis had reached the small of his back. His thumbs went lower, grazing there, while his other fingers dug deep into the flesh of his arse. Greyjoy’s head fell back with a gasp.

“Gods be damned, will you fuck me already,” he panted. 

Stannis growled and bit down on his neck, hard. Greyjoy’s fingernails dug in deep on his shoulders. 

“What are you waiting for?” Greyjoy shifted on Stannis’ lap, until Stannis’ cock was wedged in the cleft of his ass. “Do I need to beg, like the whore I am?”

Stannis bit again, furious. He hated Greyjoy saying that word, and meaning it. His hands tightened their hold on his ass, he squeezed. “You will not say that again.”

“Would you rather call me your salt boy? It’s all the same to me. Come on, Your Grace, fuck me.” 

Stannis growled and pushed Greyjoy down in the sheets. Greyjoy’s legs came up around his waist, cradling Stannis between his thighs. Stannis’ cock grazed at his hole, and while Greyjoy tilted his hips up to make the penetration easier, Stannis tensed and held back. 

“What now, damn you,” Greyjoy cursed with exasperation.

“I have no salve with me.”

“Do it anyway.”

“You made me promise,” Stannis forced out through gritted teeth.

“I release you from it, for now. Gods, just... you can. I am still. From before. It’s only been half a day.”

That should not have heightened his arousal, but, oh, it did, and Stannis broke and groaned and pushed in with one steady thrust. 

“Yes,” Greyjoy whispered. “Yes.” 

It was a frenzy from then on, heat and friction and delicious tightness. How was it possible he had lived without it, for so long? A man’s lean body, and strength, matching his own. When he had bedded Selyse, she had lain there and endured, quiet and still while he had to make himself to do his duty. He had soon rather taken himself in hand, only sliding inside her for the last few thrusts, to spill his seed where it might get her with child.

Melisandre had been above him, ridden him astride and forced his release from him, and he had closed his eyes and thought of a man’s hand, a man’s mouth, and tried not to hear the soft cries she made. 

This, now, was so different. For the first time in his life he could understand why Robert had succumbed to temptation so easily, if it felt like this with a willing partner, a lover, and although he knew that Greyjoy was neither, it was close enough to give him a taste he would not, could not ever forget. 

His climax was like a wave that swallowed him whole, washed away shame and guilt. When he spent, it seemed to last an eternity and left him utterly drained; he sank down on Greyjoy and fought for air, his head spinning like he was drunk on the strongest ale. 

When he had regained enough of his wits to become conscious of his surroundings, he realised he was still on top of Greyjoy, who had fallen silent, staring at the ceiling unseeingly.

Stannis shifted his weight and pulled out. It barely elicited a reaction. Greyjoy’s hands were on the bed, beside his body, restlessly clenching the blankets. 

A weight settled heavy in his stomach. He had thought... Barely aware of what he was doing, Stannis’ hand went to Greyjoy’s groin, trailing over a jutted hipbone and coarse hair to his cock, warm and engorged, but half-hard at best. 

Greyjoy froze beneath him. He inhaled sharply. “No -” he squirmed, bucked, trying to escape the touch. “Please don’t.”

It was the first time Stannis had touched another’s manhood, and the feeling was strange, something that – under different circumstances – he would have liked to explore. In this situation Greyjoy’s reaction felt like a punch to the gut. 

_What have I thought? That he would welcome my touch? That he found pleasure in what I did to him?_ Greyjoy had enjoyed what had happened before, he was sure, being fondled and kissed, but... _Can a man even reach completion from being taken like this?_

It was of no use to guess, and he could not ask: not this, not now. He should have know better than to presume that he might be skilled enough to make the act enjoyable.

“Tell me what to do,” he demanded of Greyjoy, roughly. “How...” Stannis’ hand closed around his cock again, tugging slightly, staring down at it, the soft, smooth skin, head covered by foreskin, not hard enough to let it slide back easily.

Greyjoy had his eyes averted. He offered no resistance, but it was apparent that he did not like the touch at all. “Nothing,” he whispered. “It is not... I cannot. Not since the Dreadfort.”

It made little sense to Stannis. “The maester never told me about...”

“There is nothing to tell. Ramsay... I did not like what he offered me. He said I was no man, and that... that was better. Safe. Reek is no man. Only now I cannot... I don’t know. Theon was dead, and Reek couldn’t... I... what is my name? I have forgotten my name.”

Before Stannis’ eyes, Greyjoy’s face changed. His eyes became narrow slits, his features contorted, an ugly grimace. He curled up on his side, tightly coiled like a scared animal.

“Don’t hurt me. Please. I will remember, in a moment.” His voice was high and fast. 

_Madness,_ Stannis thought, and if the bastard had not been burned to ashes, he would gladly have put the torch to the pyre himself.

He reached for Greyjoy, slowly, very slowly. “Your name is Theon. You are Theon.” He repeated the name, and it seemed to frighten Greyjoy further. 

“Look at me,” Stannis demanded at last, and Greyjoy obeyed, careful not to stare at him openly, but to do it from the corner of his eyes.

“Who am I?”

It took a moment for Greyjoy to reply. “The... the king. Stannis. Your eyes are so blue. You fuck me.”

“I am the king. You know that.”

Greyjoy nodded. 

“Good. Listen, and listen closely. I am the king, and I know your name. It is Theon.”

“Yes. Theon.”

Stannis waited. 

It took a some time for Greyjoy to calm down. After a while, when he did not seem so frightened anymore, Stannis lay down beside him and pulled him closer. 

Greyjoy did not resist. 

“You are Theon,” Stannis said, and that was when Greyjoy began to cry at last, heavy, gut-wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. 

Stannis held him, and thought of another boy with blue eyes and an easy smile, a frightened child in the dark, hurt and alone.

~~~~~

When Stannis left the room, the guards were gone. The white direwolf lay on the landing of the spiral staircase, in front of the archway that led to the antechamber to Snow’s chamber.  
Stannis could not see Snow and wondered for a moment where he was, until he heard a slight snoring from the depth of the room and, lifting the candle in its stone bowl and saw a slumped figure leaning against a another door.

An empty pitcher lay on the floor beside Snow.

Ghost rose to his feet and went to Stannis, yawning and wagging his tail just a little bit. Stannis crouched down to smell at the pitcher. Ale, and judging from the size of the vessel, Snow had drunken quite a lot.

Ghost nudged him with his head. Stannis almost lost his balance. He put a hand on the direwolf’s head and petted it, surprised by the softness of the coarse-looking fur. “Shall we waken your master?”

Ghost sat down on his hind legs and gnawed idly on one paw. Stannis kept petting him with one hand while he looked at Snow.

Dark, long lashes, an untidy head of black curls. A short, stubbly beard, a scar above his right eye, old enough it had turned into a thin pale line. His face was long and lean, with a strong jaw and full, curved lips that softened his expression and made him look approachable and open. Snow’s face concealed little and less, spoke of his intentions and virtues and revealed his flaws. 

Stannis could always see what Snow thought; whether he was amused or worried, and knew from the stubborn tilt of his chin and the protruding of his jaw when he had set his mind on something, and was about to refuse Stannis’ request.

Most men either bowed down to Stannis or offered defiance; there were only a very few men who dared to meet him as equal. Snow was one of them, even the first time they met, when he was just a bastard boy of the Night’s Watch, not the Lord Commander.

And now he had lain down his sword at Stannis’ feet and given him his oath.

Gently Stannis put a hand on his shoulder and woke him up. Snow blinked, those lashes revealing slate grey eyes, and came awake with a start when he noticed Stannis. “Stannis,” he murmured, and it gave Stannis a jolt, to hear his name in that sleepy, dark voice, low and intimate.

“Your Grace,” Snow corrected himself, obviously alarmed at his lapse, and sat up straight. His gaze went from Stannis to the open door to the bedchamber, and there it was, the frown that indicated worry.

Stannis got to his feet again. “I ought to have known you would wait. The turncloak is asleep; all is well.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Stannis held out his hand and offered assistance; Snow took it and rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. Even standing, he swayed. He held Stannis’ hand for longer than necessary, staring at it curiously, and only let go when Stannis pulled his own hand back.

“Were you here the whole time?” 

Snow merely nodded and suppressed a yawn. He looked like a little boy for a moment.

Stannis shook his head. “Are you drunk, Lord Snow?” 

Snow considered the possibility with another frown. “Maybe. A little.”

“Why?”

Snow blushed a deep scarlet, visible even in the dim candlelight and averted his eyes, like a maiden caught staring at a particularly handsome knight. 

“I see,” Stannis said, once he had made sense of the odd reaction. He needed no further explanation that could only heighten his own embarrassment.

“I did not... I did not listen,” Snow said as an excuse. 

“What have you heard?”

Snow bit his lip. “Bits and pieces,” he admitted. “I also... also heard him cry.”

“You will speak of this to no one,” Stannis said. “I trust it you sent Lady Asha away before her brother started wailing like a babe?”

Snow nodded again, and Stannis wanted to reproach him for his lack of manners, to divert from the subject at hand. Stannis had never made a habit of explaining his motives to anyone, be it someone of equal rank or an subject, and the topic was no one he wanted to discuss at all, much less with a man he desired and who could only feel disgust for his vile tastes. Snow, who had loved a wilding woman, and not one of his sworn brothers, as a man of the Night’s Watch might.

“If you ever invade my privacy again in that manner, I will have you flogged, Lord of Winterfell or not. Do you understand?”

“Someone needed to guard the door,” Snow pointed out. “And it was _my_ bedchamber, after all.”

There it was again, the boldness that made Stannis want to strangle him. That, or... 

_No. I will not think of him that way._

“If this is what happens when you drink, you will be served milk and water from now on,” Stannis said as bitingly as he could. 

Snow blinked at him again but said nothing to his defense.

Stannis shook his head in a reprimand. “Look after him. Since it is your bed he is sleeping in tonight.” He almost bit his own tongue at the unintended double entendre, and narowed his eyes to glare at Snow and prevent him from commenting on it. 

Snow, even in his inebriated state, caught the hint. He coughed. “I will, Your Grace.”

~~~~~

Selyse was restless in her fever dreams. The room smelled of decay and the herbs the maester used on her, and it was warm in her room, warmer than any other place in the castle. 

One of Selyse’s ladies in waiting was with her all the time, and the maester came to examine her thrice a day. Shireen had been forbidden from staying at her mother’s side for too long, both for her own health and her peace of mind. His wife was dying, despite the maester’s greatest efforts and Lady Melisandre’s prayers. 

Could Greyjoy’s blood truly save her? 

Stannis had seen with his own eyes the power of the red priestess’ magics, the way she forged Lightbringer, how Renly and Penrose had died, how her flames burned the skinchanger’s eagle at the Wall.

The visions she saw came true, though she misconstrued them often enough that he had started to doubt her even before she betrayed him by keeping Rayder alive. She had refused to explain herself, asked him to trust her. 

Did she really do everything she could for Selyse? 

_If you will not burn me, she has more to gain from the queen’s death._

He had refused to give her the turncloak. Was she true to her word and tried to save his wife’s life? Selyse had been useful for her, a convenient supporter of her faith, as she had taken to the teachings of the Lord of Light so readily. 

Stannis had never loved Selyse, yet it was hard to imagine his life without her. She had been loyal to him, always, and supported his claim, brought men to his banner, given him his only child.

 _I paid her back by taking her to a world of ice and snow, where she will find her death._ If there was a way to save her, did he not owe it to her go to any lengths to do it?

_I wish Davos were here. He would tell me the truth, as he saw it, and I could rely on his counsel, given to his best ability, more wisely than a maester’s and with a nobler intent._

He tried to imagine what Davos might say, but came up blank: he was not capable of the same amount of decency as his onion lord. 

_I have done worse things on the priestess’ account,_ a voice in his head said. _Why not give her Greyjoy, whose crimes certainly justify it?_

I have never reneged on a promise before. 

Gods be damned, had he become fond of Greyjoy after all, and only used his promise as an excuse not to see him burned? 

Had he been so corrupted by his carnal desires? Had he sunken so low as to set his wants and needs before his duty? 

_Is it not my duty to serve the Lord of Light? I pledged to him, I ride under his banners._

Yet he could no longer serve the Lady Melisandre. It was as if somebody had drawn the blindfold from his eyes, and he could see her clearly for the first time.

She had never lied to him, but let him believe in lies. Knowing he would never be persuaded to slay Renly in a cowardly assault, literally murderd by a shadow, she had told him what he wanted to hear, that she could give him the means to defeat his brother. It had been his fault as well; he had not questioned it, and let her use him and his body. 

_Her gifts come at a price, and it is not a cheap one. My sigil. My seed. My honor. My **brother**._

She would have taken his nephew’s life, had he let her. Stannis had given her Edric’s blood, and would have given her more had Davos not intervened. She had fulfilled the promise that the false kings would die; yet it had brought him no closer to the throne than a whispered plea to the Seven.

_Robb Stark died and Roose Bolton took his place. The bastard Joffrey died and the bastard Tommen claimed the Iron Throne. Balon Greyjoy died and the Crow’s Eye is wearing the crown._

He had sent Davos to White Harbor because she had seen in her flames it was the only way to restore peace in the North. She had not told him what the price would be.

Every time he had listened to her counsel, and given in to her demands, he had become a lesser king, and a lesser man, and his men had become hers as well. She had brought him what he could not inspire himself: his men’s love and loyalty and eagerness to serve, not to serve their king, but their common cause and the Lord of Light.

Now she told him she could save Selyse, but at what a cost? It seemed to come as cheap: the turncloak’s life for his wife’s, but the hook was still barbed: he would lose his face again, and his word would be worth even less hence. 

_No._

Fate was a cruel mistress, taking one life for another: a mother’s life for her child, a knight’s life for the men he had sworn to protect. That was the course of nature, the will of the Gods, whoever they were. 

_Yet I will no longer trade in lives. The turncloak’s soul may be stained and tattered beyond reason; I will not use it as a bargaining coin._

He looked down at his wife, the woman he had sworn to protect and honor. 

‘That appears to be a poor thing for a God to do, to punish her for my sins,’ he had said to Lady Melisandre. 

_Selyse has chosen her path as I have chosen mine. May the Lord of Light bless her soul, and if she were to die, I shall pray for Him to take her to His empyrean realms._

_I will follow the Lord of Light, since I have given my oath to Him. I will no longer follow **her** ; I have already given her too much._

 

~~~~~

“This is my verdict: You will remove yourself from my presence immediately. Whether you return to Asshai, or stay in Westeros, you may decide for yourself. If you choose to remain in the North, I will not stand for talk of treason. Should word reach me that you were inciting war amongst my people, know that I will defeat you like any other foe.”

Lady Melisandre knew him well enough that she did not attempt to argue. “Your Grace will regret this,” she said instead. “Your are a king without a throne, and you will not win it by turning against those who stood at your side in many battles fought and won.”

“Then I will die in the attempt, and know I have fought the battle on my own; not as another’s fool.”

“The first one to die will be your queen when you turn from me, and your cause is doomed by your estrangement from God. But I see, Stannis Baratheon, that you have set your mind on your erring, sinful ways, and will not hear my words any more. Remember, though, that the true enemy beyond the Wall will not be defeated by the means of men. Only R’hllor’s mercy will help you to prevail.”

“R’hllor’s mercy, but not yours. You have served me well, my lady, and only therefore I offer you such lenience. I will, however, no longer be your puppet. I will send an envoy to Asshai, to ask for another priest to be sent to us, who shall continue to teach us the ways of God and spread the faith of the Lord of Light.”

Lady Melisandre took her defeat with grace. She bowed her head. “Your Grace. By your leave, I would return to the Wall rather than to Asshai. There is a battle to come, and I wish to fight for my God.”

“I grant you permission. Mind my words about treason, my lady. I will not have you turn a black brotherhood into a red one.”

That made her smile, a strained smile, but not without humor. Stannis had always appreciated her strength, that she did not falter or wilt in the face of his anger. “Fear not, my king. The sworn brothers will not abandon their customs so easily.”

_Shall the Night’s Watch have her. They are dumber than the mules they ride, and more stubborn at that. I cannot imagine they will welcome her; even so, if they take on the faith of R’hllor, she might convince them to turn against the foremost enemy, instead of fighting against each other and the wildlings. There lies a certain danger in a brotherhood of converts, but the chances she can turn all at once are slim._

Stannis watched her go from his solar, her robes billowing like the flare of a fire, a living flame in a world of granite and snow. He was free of her at last. At least for now. _She still thinks I will soon have need of her again, and bide her time, at the Wall or elsewhere._


	20. Jon V

The day was gloomy. Snow had fallen at night and covered the walls and the ground and the roofs with a fresh coat of white. Jon stood at the king’s side and watched Lady Melisandre leave with her escort, two of Stannis’ men-at-arms. 

Jon wished silently that Stannis had chosen a less public setting for her departure, but the king wanted her gone, and for his men to see she was gone. Jon had not objected, but felt that he should have done so when she brought her horse to a standstill right in front of the king, before the great keep. 

Stannis’ face was devoid of emotion. “My lady, I bid you farewell,” he said.

She bowed her head gracefully. “Farewell, my king, and mind the words of the Lord of Light. When you tread in darkness on dangerous ground, turn to R’hllor for guidance, and He shall forgive your sins.”

Her gaze fell on Jon, and she smiled. “Lord Snow. Keep you fires burning, and your direwolf close. You, too, will serve God. Remember that R’hllor still has a use for you. In the flames I see a host marching for Winterfell, and a man who leads an army of frogs and carries a crown of dragons in his wake. He is coming for you. I have seen the crypts of Winterfell and the shadow of the old; blue roses in a woman’s hand. I have also seen a stag and a direwolf, bound by tendrils of gold, entwined so closely they appeared as one, and a fiery heart enclosing them both.”

“I will not tell you any more than that, as you have often told me that I read the fires wrongly. But this is what I saw, and I leave it to you what to think of it. It may be that I have indeed erred in the past, and where I thought I had found my goal, it was only the path leading to it. Be that as it may. We shall see each other again, Lord Snow. Farewell.”

She spurred her horse on and set on her way with a last nod at them both.

The minute the east gate was closed behind her and her escort, Jon noticed that the king relaxed fractionally. He turned and walked back inside, nodding at Jon to accompany him.

“Have a goblet of wine,” Stannis said and beckoned for Devan. The squire looked miserable; the news of his father’s death had hit him hard. He went about his duties with his usual diligence, but his usual lively curiosity his face had shown whenever Jon saw him at Castle Black was gone and shadows darkened his eyes. 

“Your Grace?” the boy asked quietly after he had poured wine for Jon and lemon water for the king. “May I ask a question?”

Stannis raised his eyebrows. “You just did.”

Devan blushed, and Stannis regarded him for a moment, thoughtful, and permitted him with a nod to continue. 

“The Lady Melisandre, Your Grace – is she gone for good?”

“Are you a follower of R’hllor now, Devan?”

“No, sire.” The boy blushed, but did not avert his eyes, and met the king’s eyes with an air of defiance.

“The Lady Melisandre shall not return to my service.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Devan bowed and retreated silently. Stannis’ gaze followed him, and for a moment it seemed almost wistful. Stannis shook his head, then directed his attention to Jon.

“Where is the turncloak?”

“He went to see the maester this morning.”

Theon had spent the day before mostly asleep, curled up under blankets. The maester had come to see him once, and, satisfied with his recovery, said that as of this morning, Theon would be well enough to get up and walk around again. 

Jon would have his room to himself tonight and Theon would have to return to his alcove. The thought was strangely unsettling, although Jon told himself that Theon’s wellbeing was not his responsibility, and some of the servants certainly slept under worse conditions in the only partially restored keep. He could hardly give Theon back his old room; the lords would misread it as a sign that Jon was secretly gloating about his brothers’ death, as it had brought him the rule of Winterfell after all. 

Maybe there was another bed where Theon would be welcome at night, but Jon refused to think about that. It had been bad enough to hear the sounds the other night, and see the red marks on Theon’s throat, and imagine what the king and him had done together. In mine own bed. 

Theon had surely enjoyed himself. Jon knew those sounds intimately; he had run into Theon with one of the maids or village girls more than once in the years before the war. Theon had not been discreet. Although he never went so far that Jon’s father had to reprimand him – at least as far as Jon knew – he had no quarrel tumbling a maid in the barn or the hot pools in the godswood. 

When Jon had listened to the soft sighs and drawn-out moans through the thick wooden door that had only recently been repaired, he had been hard and straining in his breeches.

The noises could not be mistaken, but also left too much to the imagination, and Jon’s mind had tried to fill the pauses between them with pictures of a distinct nature. Theon, on his back in the hay, head thrown back in bliss, and a girl riding him with her skirts high up around her waist.

But there had been no girl with him to elicit those sounds from him, only Stannis. That raised questions of a different nature altogether, and left Jon with a lasting blush on his face. He felt hot and cold in turn and could not recall a time he had wanted to touch himself so badly. 

Jon shook his head to reprimand himself: he could not think about it now; already he felt flushed with heat, and Stannis was right before him, observing him from deep blue eyes.

He recalled with effort what the last question had been, and hastened to explain. “For his teeth, as I was told; otherwise he is well.”

Stannis gave him a curt nod, and took up a restless stride through the room.

“There are things we must needs consider, and soon.”

“Which kind of things, sire?”

“Foremost your marriage.”

Jon almost dropped his goblet. 

“The wildling princess is no longer as a suitable prospect. Since she has gone with Giantsbane, she is caught at the wrong side of the Wall anyway.”

“I am sorry we could not take her with us to Winterfell. I promised to keep her at Castle Black, but...”

“Never mind that now. We have other unions that can bring us the wildlings, thanks to Selyse. For you I have a different match in mind. There is Manderly’s younger daughter, quite a spitfire if rumors are to be believed. The Umbers have several girls about your age also.”

“Your Grace,” Jon said quietly, “I would rather not.” 

“Marriage is a duty required of a man, just like any other. Are you still mourning the wildling woman?”

“I will always mourn Ygritte. But that is not the reason.”

“What is it, then?”

“I am still a bastard. I could give my wife no name, no house, not even a home.”

“That will change soon. Or do you still believe that your brothers can be found? It has been more than a year.”

“We have only been looking for a week.”

“Even so. A name, and a house: I offered you both. If you still refuse the name of Stark, found your own house, and a home will be built in time.”

“Your Grace...”

Stannis growled. “Must you always complain and defy me? Everything is a struggle with you, Lord Snow.”

“Yours is a political marriage, Your Grace.”

“They always are.”

“Pardon me if I say so, Your Grace, but I do not wish for a loveless match, and have no need of a wife.”

“It is an old saying that love comes with time.”

Or not at all. As you very well know. Jon had to bite his tongue not to say the words out loud. He wondered whether Stannis truly believed him ingenuous enough to take his words serious or was trying to goad him into an ill-considered reply. 

“Your brother married for love. He paid with his life. Is that the kind of match you wish to make?”

“No, Your Grace. But I am only seven-and-ten; surely there is no need to hurry.”

“The Red Wedding left the North bereft of its most promising young men. Those who are left will be married before the year ends, and all the fair maidens will be wed. Now you can at least choose.”

Jon closed his eyes. Stannis was right. But the thought of marrying a foreign girl, who could never understand what he had done and what oaths he had sworn and broken and abandoned, was enough to make him wish for a way of escape. 

“Would you rather marry the kraken?”

“Lady Asha?” Jon asked with disbelief.

“She is older than you, but still young enough to give you children.”

“No, Your Grace.” Jon could see her sharp, dangerous smile before his eyes

“A pity. I will have to marry her off, to one of my knights if nothing else. I thought you might be able to tame her.”

“I sincerely doubt that. She seems fierce enough to be a spearwife.”

“Aye.” Stannis’ eyes measured him. “Maybe I was wrong. It seems likely as not that you would be the one tamed.”

“I am not an animal, Your Grace,” Jon said coolly. 

Stannis’ eyes glittered. “A direwolf cub, for sure, and I intend to put a leash on you. We will see if you are not sufficiently docile when I am done with you. Make your choice, Snow, and make it soon, or I will make it for you. Winterfell needs an heir, and the North needs sons.”

 _A leash._ Jon had to control his face, he could not let his anger show. He rose to his feet. “Your Grace must forgive me. I have duties to fulfill.”

Their eyes met, briefly, in a mutual expression of intent. Jon knew that Stannis would never avert his gaze first, and there was no need to turn it into a battle of wills, so he dropped his gaze and bowed to the king, his movements tightly controlled. 

He meant to leave the room, but Stannis called bim back. “Wait.”

“Your Grace?”

Stannis sighed. “What I said was uncalled for. I offer you an apology, Lord Snow.”

It nearly made Jon question his sanity, or at least his hearing. Had Stannis actually apologized to him? He had only known Stannis for a year, but he knew that he had just been witness to a very rare thing indeed. 

“Accepted, Your Grace,” he said tersely. He would not try to pretend that the remark had not smarted; words like these could not be undone.

“The Lady Melisandre showed a certain fondness for you.”

Jon did not know what that had to do with their argument, but sometimes it was better not to try and follow the king’s line of thought. “Fondness, Your Grace? I am not sure it can be called that. She tried to convert me to the faith of R’hllor, but I assumed it was because she hoped my sworn brothers would follow my example.”

Stannis’ gaze subjected him to close scrutiny. “She has her own way to persuade men to serve her.”

Jon shook his head. “As much as she tried to impress me with her visions of the future, and make me follow her advice, I could not trust her words over my own judgment. There was certainly truth in her flames, but I am hesitant to call it wisdom. After we had left the Wall, she told me more than once, that, had I listened to her words, the ambush might have been prevented, although I do not know why she still wished so urgently to convince me.”

“There is no arguing over such a statement; it can hardly be proven wrong.”

Jon gave him a reluctant smile. “That is what I thought also.”

His fury about the king’s insult already faded slowly. Stannis was a man of a volatile temper, with no patience for opposition of any kind. Jon should have known his refusal would stir the king’s anger. 

“Her words to you in the yard were also meant as a lesson for me. She revealed her visions to you and meant to punish me by concealing what else she might have seen.”

“It would seem so, yes. For what it is worth, I am glad Your Grace decided to dismiss her.”

“Why is that?”

Jon could imagine how Stannis would react to the answer he wanted to give. _Because I did not like seeing her at your side. Yes, that would go down well with him._

“I think she holds little love for the people of Westeros, or respect for its king.”

Stannis snorted. “And what would you know about the latter? She did not contradict me constantly, as some I could name.”

Jon sighed. “I do not contradict Your Grace lightly, or gladly.”

“I know. That makes it no better. Be on your way, Lord Snow, before I yet decide to have a collar fitted for you.”

Jon left with the feel that Stannis would keep finding ways to rile him up, only to see how far he could push. There had to be a way to assure Stannis of his loyalty, but how? _I will not marry a woman he presents to me on a silver platter, with a honeyed apple on top to sweeten the taste of imprisonment._

~~~~~

“If you can give me ships...”

“I might give you ships, Lord Snow, but what you need them for, I would like to know.”

Jon bent over the map and pointed at Hardhome. “They need to go there, and soon. War galleys and merchant vessels, to carry the free folk to Widow’s Watch, and defend them against the slavers and the Skagosi.”

Manderly frowned. “I have heard much and more of the wildlings from Lord Stannis’ men. Is my lord sure that they will not prove a danger to the North?”

“They will not. I will take their vows, and settle them in the gift, or near enough that it will make no difference.

“The Night’s Watch will not like that any more now than they did the last time you made the attempt. Forgive me my bluntness, Lord Snow.”

“We do not know that yet. As far as we know, the agreement with the free folk still stands. Be that as it may, the ships have to set sail soon, or they will come too late. We can decide what we do with the wildlings once they are here.”

Manderly’s frown deepened. “Is that a wise course, Lord Snow?”

Jon bit his tongue not to say something scolding. “I think so, and the king agrees. You forget, my lord, that there is another battle to be fought, and we do not know when the fight will begin. I would rather have the free folk here, to fight at our side, than beyond the Wall, slain by the Others and raised to be wights. Can I count on you support, or will you turn against me like my sworn brothers did?”

Manderly bowed his head. “I will not turn against you, Lord Snow. I will send word to White Harbor, that the ships be made ready to depart. Yet enough of them need to remain that White Harbor can defend itself from an attack from the south. Dragonstone has fallen, and the Vale is ruled by Lord Baelish: the way to White Harbor has become a lot shorter for the Lannisters’ forces. We need to prepare for a war at sea.”

“The royal fleet has gone to fight the ironborn in the Reach,” Jon said.

“That may change, once the queen hears of the Boltons’ defeat.”

“I don’t think so. King Tommen needs to secure the South, from Dorne to the Twins, before she can take a chance to march against us.”

“So one would think. But the Lannisters are good for surprises. The Tyrells as well.”

“I only wish we had reliable news from the South,” Jon said. 

“Me, too, my lord.”

“Very well. Send as many ships as can be spared. I trust on your good sense, Lord Manderly.”

“Now you sound like your father,” Manderly said with a wistful smile. “I only wish...”

 _That I were trueborn._ All the lords did; it showed in their faces and the way they still held back, were still hesitant to pay their tolls and taxes and send him the men and horses he needed. They thought he was Stannis’ man, and Jon could not even blame them for it. He _was_ Stannis’ man, after all. _He is the rightful king. I will follow him as my father followed Robert._

Eddard Stark had been the trueborn heir of Winterfell, a lord in his own right. Jon was only a bastard son, raised to lordship by Stannis’ decree. The northerners had no reason to love Stannis, and they never would, although he had given them back Winterfell, and revenge for the Red Wedding. He still was a foreigner, a stormlander who came with the banners of a red god they did not believe in, and Stannis being Stannis, treating them as his subjects and only that, they gave him the obedience he demanded but nothing more. They had not loved Robert either; it had been enough that Lord Stark did. But Jon had not earned the same measure of trust. 

Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had been as close as brothers as they grew up together as Lord Arryn’s wards. There was no such connection between Jon and Stannis. Why had he given Stannis his allegiance so readily? _Because he deserved it, and because I wanted to._

_I wish I were only a knight, with my only obligation the service to my lord and king._

_But if I were, I doubt that Stannis would have use for me. I have no men to bring to his banners, no gold to give, and my skills with the sword leave much to desire. He said it himself: he has no need of a Ser Snow. I know that, and yet... The thought should not hurt as much as it does._

There was no use in dwelling on it. _I would do better to mind my duties than to ponder on the what-ifs._

Jon straightened his stance. “I understand, Lord Manderly. I know I am not who you wished for a liege lord,” he said. “I cannot change that any more than you could change the course of the seasons.”

“I never tried that,” Lord Wyman said with a wink. “So we cannot say for sure whether it could be done. Yet in one point you are mistaken, Lord Snow. Your are _exactly_ who I wish for as a liege lord.”


	21. Theon X

Theon was awoken by a heavy weight that settled on top of him, and the sensation of a wet, warm pressure of lips on the nape of his neck, just below the hairline. He made a half-complaining, half-sighing sound and opened his eyes to the near darkness of the king’s bedroom. 

“Are you finished with your scheming?” he asked sleepily. 

Stannis did not reply, but the tongue grazing the shell of his ear and the lips closing around the lobe and tugging softly were enough of an answer. 

Theon shuddered, his whole back tingling in response. “A silly question.”

He felt the hardness of the king’s cock against his ass and spread his legs so Stannis could slide between them. “Do I need to move?” he asked. 

“No,” Stannis said in a voice hoarse with desire. “And cease talking.”

Theon’s huffed out a laugh. “May I go back to sleep then?”

Stannis tugged at his short hair roughly. “Don’t you dare.”

Theon hummed in reply. Stannis reached for the salve, and Theon lifted his hips a little to make the penetration easier. Stannis’ fingers brushed something inside of him that had him half-hard and yearning, longing for the state of arousal that hovered just out of his reach, and he shifted and tried to get more of it. 

“Lie still,” the king ordered, a little amused. “You are wriggling like an eel.”

Stannis withdrew his fingers, and while Theon stilled, resigned, he pushed in. Stannis went slow, so slow it felt like torture, and brushed that _something_ again, and it still was not enough. Theon buried his face in his arms, and settled for what he could get, the sheer bliss that was another’s touch, hot breath on his neck, a callused hand sliding along his side. 

Stannis took his pleasure from him, never quickening his pace. His release was a thing of beauty: the desperate clutch at Theon’s shoulders, a whispered _yes_ and a soundless cry as he spent. 

Theon closed his eyes again, nearly content. In a way, what he did with Stannis was liberating: not having to do anything, free of the need to chase his own release, being another’s plaything. He wondered, was it because of all that had happened, that he relished it so much, or had he only hidden his wish to submit, even from himself? He had certainly never considered to bed a man, let alone to permit someone to take him this way. Even if he had wanted it before, he would never have admitted it. All those women, had they only been a distraction, a veil to conceal what he really wanted? Theon could not tell. Not that it mattered anyway. 

Theon yawned. Stannis had rolled off him and lay on his back. His breath deepened and evened out, slowly turning into a snore. Theon turned to his side, put his head on the king’s shoulder, and went back to sleep.

It seemed as if only minutes had passed when an urgent knock at the door woke him. He flinched and curled into himself, his heart beating like a drum. He retreated to the edge of the bed, as far from the door as possible.

Stannis sat up and shook his head in an attempt to shake off the haze. The knock came again.

The king climbed from the bed and put on his dressing gown before he opened the door. “What is it?”

“Your Grace,” a voice said. “The maester sent me. The queen...”

Theon knew before the messenger had spoken, and from the way Stannis’ shoulders tensed, he did, too.

“Queen Selyse has died, Your Grace.”

~~~~~

The flames of the funeral pyre burned high and bright, casting shadows on the ground. The solitary figure of the king, who stood at the front side, was highlighted in its fiery glory. Stannis’ eyes were fixed on the fire, as if he could see something different than the shroud, cloth-of-gold embroidered with red flames, and the corpse hidden within. 

On the opposite side, the queen’s men stood in silence as well. The prayers had been spoken and the incantations had faded. Selyse’s household, her ladies in waiting and the lords and ladies of the North who had not yet left Winterfell, had assembled as well. Shireen stood between Maester Pylos and her fool, Patchface, who had coloured his face with black coal and white powder. Jon Snow stood next to Lord Manderly, accompanied by Hother Umber, the Thenns and, surprisingly, Asha. While her men were nowhere to be seen, Theon’s sister had come to mourn a queen she had never met. 

While the noble audience had gathered in the castle yard where Lady Catelyn’s sept had once stood, the men-at-arms and the common folk had lit fires in the courtyard and the winter town, more than usual, and bigger ones. They were burning for the queen, a beacon so that R’hllor would see them and come to take her soul to the empyrean realm. Or so the prayers said. 

Theon, belonging to neither crowd, had remained in the castle yard, hidden in the shadows of the gates that separated the inner castle from the main courtyard. It was dark, so hopefully no one would see him. He was not sorry for the queen’s demise; he had not known her. 

_And I hope for her sake that she did not know of me. The king’s whore. I doubt she would have approved of her husband’s definition of punishment for a traitor._

Theon’s gaze was drawn toward Stannis, the lonely figurehead, gaunt and thin in his cloth-of-gold coat, holding himself so tense it seemed unnatural.

_He will hate himself a little more for this. He will eat less, sleep less, and one day he will wake up and see that he is only a skeleton kept together by the skin covering his bones, driven by his sense of obligation. Only a shell of a man, empty and brittle, while the core of his true self has been buried so deep for years that it started to wither and die._

_I never thought I would meet someone as pathetic as me, but the king might just be._

Theon was not the only one watching the king. Many speculating gazes were cast in Stannis’ direction, wondering, no doubt, about whether the king would take another wife and how soon, or if he would turn from R’hllor as he had turned from Melisandre, now that the queen was no longer present. _Vultures, all of them, watching the king for any weakness, planning and scheming and deciding whether the queen’s death offers them opportunity to get closer to the king._

Theon’s gaze fell on Jon Snow. The bastard, too, looked at the king, but in a wholly different way. Like a loyal dog waiting for his master’s acknowledgment, sensing that something was wrong but without a notion how to make it right again. Would Jon try to lick the king’s hand to make him feel better? Theon sneered.

 _If Stannis catches you staring at him like this, he will not like it, Snow. It looks too much like pity, your gaze._

As the fires burned down, people silently left the yard and only Stannis and his guards remained. Theon, who had held a similar vigil not too long ago, turned to go as well. The king would not welcome his presence.

His steps took him once more to the godswood. He went there every other day, even visited the heart tree at times, but the weird feeling of a presence watching him, the whisper of his name, had not occurred again.

Today, someone had already arrived there, a small figure in a white-furred winter coat that was too big for her slender frame.

Theon wanted to retreat unnoticed, but the princess had heard him approach and turned around to face him, half afraid and half defiant, as if she felt guilty for her presence.

Theon pulled down the hood to hide his face, bowed to her and turned to leave.

Her quiet voice stopped him. “I know who you are.”

Under her scrutinizing gaze – so much like her father’s – he cringed and looked away. “My lady. You should not be here on your own.”

“They call you a turncloak, and I heard Lady Melisandre say that my lord father should burn you.”

Theon said nothing. 

“And that... if my lady mother died, it would be his fault, for not doing that.”

“That’s what many people say,” Theon muttered. 

“I don’t understand. Why should mother die when it was you who did something wrong in the first place?”

“Because the king failed to serve justice.” He had heard if often enough that the answer came to him immediately.

“The maester said that you had suffered enough. Because you were tortured by Ramsay Snow, who cut off your fingers.”

“Did he now? And what do you think?”

Shireen cocked her head to the side. “I don’t know.” 

Theon laughed and belatedly took care to cover his toothless mouth. “That makes two of us.”

She was a sweet girl, not very pretty – and much less with her face marred by the greyscale – but with her father’s attentive and thoughtful gaze that regarded Theon with curiosity rather than disgust. 

“They say you killed two little boys.”

“I did,” Theon whispered. “They were younger than you, even.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought I had to, at the time.”

“But _why_?”

“Because I was stupid,” he spat, and wished she would back off and no longer make him remember those things. Nobody ever let him forget for long, but at least they did not make him talk about it.

“Do you regret it?”

“Regret does not change a thing. They are still dead.”

“I know,” she said. “But do you?”

“Every day,” he said with his voice so hoarse it had to be a different man speaking, not him, Theon Turncloak with a glib tongue and a mocking smile. “Every single day.”

“I think God knows that,” she said earnestly. “If he is as wise and merciful as they say.”

“Merciful? R’hllor?” Theon made no attempt to hide his scorn.

“He can be,” Shireen said. “The Lady Melisandre said so.”

 _The Lady Melisandre wished to see me burn because I fuck your father._ “And she would know, of course.”

The little princess bit her lip. “Yes. But...”

“But what?”

“If he was so merciful, and just, why would he not help my mother? Maester Cre... – the maester who taught me before the war told me once that whenever Prince Joffrey did something wrong, Queen Cersei sent for a whipping boy to be beaten in his stead.”

Theon had heard of that custom, but neither the ironborn nor the northmen would tolerate anything like that; he tried to imagine Lord Eddard’s face, confronted with such a suggestion, and snorted. “That is not how it should be done.”

“My father said as much, and that if I misbehaved, the maester was in his right to administer punishment, and no other would be forced to pay for the things I had done wrong.”

Theon could imagine Stannis’ voice as he told his daughter, with a disapproving frown at the queen’s foolishness. “Of course he would.”

“I think my father had it right, not Queen Cersei,” she stated, decisive.

Theon had to smile. “Me, too.”

Shireen nodded and took a deep breath. “And that is why I think that if R’hllor does the same as Queen Cersei, he is wrong in that, and I should no longer pray to him, and I came here to see if maybe I should pray to the Old Gods instead, as we are in the North, and Lord Snow also comes here and prays to them, and he is still alive, although he refuses to believe in the Lord of Light, and my mother is dead, although she did.” 

After her defiant outburst, she took on a defensive stand, but her head was lifted and her jaw set. The resemblance was uncanny.

As if that had not been enough, Shireen said to him, “You will tell no one of this,” in a plaintive tone that still implied it was a command.

Theon smiled, he could not help it. “No, my lady.”

“I only wish that father...” the defiance went out of her and her shoulders dropped. “I wish I could talk to him.”

“You should.”

“I do not even know where he _is_. And the maester always tells me that I am not not to disturb him, and he will come to see me when he has time, but he never does, and now mother is gone too, and I... I only wish he were here,” she stated, and sounded sad. She pulled the cloak tighter around herself. 

Theon watched her. _Another lost soul. The castle appears to be full of those, lately._

He knew he should not even speak to her. Let alone listen to her while she talked about her father and the Lord of Light the way she had done. It was a danger to both of them.

“You should go see him,” Theon said. “He will be in his solar.” _If he is not still watching the pyre._

The king would not summon him, not today. But maybe he would agree to see Shireen. _She needs to learn how to talk to him, without her mother or the maester or anyone else to interfere. He needs to see her, to listen to her._ He did not even know why that seemed important to him.

She hesitated. “But...” Then she looked at Theon and fell silent. 

“All right,” she said at last. “Will you come, too?”

“You should not talk to me where others can see,” Theon said as a warning before they left the godswood, and Shireen nodded and trod after him. He felt reminded of the way Arya Stark – the real Arya – had followed Jon Snow around.

It had grown dark. Nobody took notice as Theon led Shireen across the yard and to the great keep. The guards on the base of the tower only spared them a curious look as they went in and up the stairs toward the solar, located on the first floor. 

The guards in front of the door denied Theon entrance. “His Grace wishes not to be disturbed. Off with you, turncloak, the king has no need of your _service_ tonight.” It was accompanied by an ugly sneer, and had they been in a different place, where it was less likely a noble would overhear their talk, Theon would have got to hear less pleasant words to describe the kind of duty Stannis required of him. 

It was clear from the answer, though, that the guard had not recognized Shireen, so Theon stepped aside and beckoned at her. “The princess wishes to see her father.”

The guard squinted at Shireen, who took of her hood with obvious reluctance. She tended to hide her disfigured face in the open. 

The guard shifted and refused to look her in the eye. “His Grace wants no visitors.”

Shireen’s shoulders sagged, and she turned away. 

That would not do. Theon shook his head. He took off his hood, too, and drew himself up to his full height. It was less difficult than he had thought to give his voice a trace of cool authority. “Princess Shireen, who will be _your queen_ one day, has expressed the wish to see her father. You will ask him on her behalf.”

Shireen cast him an astonished glance, insecure; that, too, would not do. He glared at her, prompting her silently to show a little spine, and she cleared her throat. “You heard it. Tell my father that I am here.”

Although Shireen’s order did not hold the very air of confidence Theon had hoped for, it was sufficient to make the guards obey. One of them knocked to pass her request to the king. “Your Grace, your daughter wishes to see you.”

Stannis came to the door himself. “Shireen? What is it?” He noticed Theon a moment later, and furrowed his brow. 

“Lord Theon was so kind as to accompany me to your solar, father. May I enter?”

 _Lord Theon?_ Theon almost choked on a laugh. 

Stannis raised his eyebrows, still looking at Theon rather than at Shireen. Theon shrugged to indicate it was her choice of words, not his. 

The king looked even worse than he had before. That he had not eaten all day was a given. Theon glanced at one of the guards. “The princess wishes to dine with her father. Have a meal brought up to them from the kitchen.”

That brought him another raised eyebrow and an assessing gaze he did his best to ignore. 

“Very well,” the king said after a moment. “Shireen, come in.” When the guard, who was busy glaring daggers at Theon, failed to move, Stannis addressed the man directly. “You heard _Lord Theon._ Dinner, and some honeyed milk with it.” 

The door closed behind father and daughter, and Theon turned to go. 

 

~~~~

Stannis did summon him that night after all.

When Theon entered his bedroom, the king had taken off his tunic and shirt, only wearing breeches and boots. Theon, who rarely got to see him like this, stared. The king’s skin was pale, his chest covered with coarse black hair. He was lean and muscled, his body steeled like a warrior’s, although one seldom saw him fight if not in battle. The gauntness had not affected his strength, which Theon had learned from experience.

“Have you bewitched my daughter, _Lord Theon_?”

Theon winced. He had known he had not heard the end of that.

“I did not tell her to call me that.”

“Shireen has been taught to be polite. Someone neglected to tell her that to exercise politeness toward a traitor is neither advisable nor necessary.”

“Does that mean she will call me turncloak in the future as well?” 

“I would prefer it if she did not call you anything. What did she say to you in the godswood?”

“I’d rather not tell Your Grace.” Theon did not think that Stannis would like his answer, but to his surprise the king smiled. 

“So you understand the virtue of discretion after all. Tell me, why did you bring her here?”

“She asked me to.”

“Keep away from my daughter.”

“I did not seek her out.”

“Even so,” Stannis insisted.

“She is a sweet child.”

“She is no beauty,” the king said soberly, oddly defensive, and while he was right in that Shireen could not be called comely, Theon wondered why it should matter to him. Stannis was not a superficial man.

“She seems bright enough.”

“And what is it that makes you sing my daughter’s praise?” Stannis asked, but did not wait for a reply. “She spent too much time with my wife, who kept her apart from other children and the common folk.”

“Yes, well,” Theon shrugged. “That could still be rectified. You could send her away as a ward, or...”

“My only child and heir? Who could I trust to keep her safe?”

“Or take on a woman in your service to educate her.”

“It is not embroidery or poetry I wish to teach her.”

“Then choose the right woman. Someone like the she-bear. Or...” the thought came so suddenly Theon could not suppress a grin. “My sister.”

“Your sister?” Stannis barked out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Lady Asha is a nuisance, and what she might have to teach my daughter, I would rather not know.

“Asha can be called many things,” Theon said. “But she is neither weak nor stupid.”

Stannis gave a noncommittal grunt that seemed to indicate he did not share Theon’s appreciation of Asha’s virtues. 

“If Snow had a wife, Shireen could stay at Winterfell... but then, the poor girl is halfway in love with him.”

“A family trait, obviously,” Theon said , and only realized his mistake as Stannis froze on the spot. 

The king’s eyes pierced him like the edge of a blade, dark, dark blue in a pale face. 

“What did you just say?”

The tone was one Theon had never heard before and could not place. It made him nervous, and he squeezed his forearms. “Nothing. I said nothing.”

“Cease that. I will not hurt you.” The king had become quite good at reading him, it seemed.

“Explain your words,” Stannis demanded. 

Theon took a deep breath. He did not look at Stannis. “I have eyes, you know. I am not blind, or stupid.”

“I never said you were.”

“It is easy to see. Not for anyone, but for me... I have known Snow for ages, and you... I know you.”

“You do _not_ know me,” the king said through gritted teeth.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Theon replied softly. The king had not denied the initial allegation, and that, if nothing else, was a clear sign that Theon was right. _And he knows it, too. I thought he was not aware of it, but he is._

“You could have him,” Theon told Stannis. “He wants you to, he desires you, _too_.”

If there had ever been a moment where the expression on Stannis’ face could be called stricken, clearly this was it. The king still stood unmoving.

_I should not have said that. Why have I? Now that he knows he can have Jon, he will never look at me again._

“I do not...” But Stannis, who was never at a loss for words, did not finish his sentence, and instead turned to undress. “It is late. Go to bed.”

 _Here?_ Theon did not dare presume. Maybe Stannis had only wanted to talk to him about Shireen.

“What are you waiting for? Undress.”

Theon did, and quietly joined the king under the blankets. 

Stannis showed no inclination to fuck him. Theon lay on his side, facing the king, and waited. 

“My wife was never beautiful, nor kind-hearted. And yet... she gave me everything she could. This very night, at least, I should mourn her the way she deserves, and not shame her memory.”

“My uncle Aeron once told me that the dead demanded neither praise nor sacrifices. That they went on and never looked back from the delight in the realm of the Drowned God, and the living did all those things only for themselves.”

“Your uncle is a wise man.”

Theon snorted. “My uncle is insane. Have you ever met him?”

“I have, in fact, many years ago. Aeron Damphair. Certainly a memorable encounter. Madness, as you should know from experience, only results from a different perspective.”

“I am not mad.”

“I did not say you were. Now sleep.”

Theon closed his eyes. But sleep did not come. He knew Stannis was awake, too, from the flat, even but too-quiet breaths.

Theon sighed, burrowing deeper in the blankets. His hand drifted toward Stannis until he found the king’s hand in the dark and slowly closed his fingers over it. 

The king sighed. “You need not comfort me like a child.”

But Theon did not let go, and after a moment, the king lifted their joined hands and put them on his stomach, just above the hipbone, touching bare, warm skin, lifting and lowering just the tiniest bit with the king’s breaths. 

Theon smiled and went to sleep.

~~~~~

“Aren’t you pretty with your shiny new teeth? What a waste on a traitor like you.” The man spat out before Theon. The malicious gleam in his eyes said that he would not be content with mere taunts. 

The clubs in the hands of the other two said the same.

Theon cursed himself. He had become careless, let himself be caught unaware, backed into a corner with no chance to escape. According to the men who had apprehended him he had been strutting around like a nobleman, showing off his newly-made teeth – courtesy of Asha’s insistence – when he was nothing but a turncloak and a kraken whore. 

Nothing new in the way of insults, but dangerous enough now that they had him cornered. It appeared they had planned it for some time. 

Theon sneered at them. “The king likes my teeth.” 

They were the Wull’s men, who had complained the loudest when Stannis refused to burn him. It was probably too much to hope that mentioning the king would make them back off.

Predictably, the ringleader, a bald man with a red beard, only scoffed. 

“The king is not here, or is he? If he likes you so much, turncloak, he should keep you chained in his chambers, not let you swagger around the castle like this. Scum. You walk around like the castle belongs to you. Needn’t wonder when someone decides they had enough and teaches you a lesson.”

“If he was a man,” another man, broad and tall and with cold blue eyes, said, “We could teach him like a man, give him a little fight. But he’s only a whore.”

The third one, almost as broad, almost as tall, and missing his left eye, laughed. “So we teach him like a whore.”

“Has to be good for something. Looks like an old man, that one, but he’s got to have a sweet ass, at least, or the king wouldn’t fuck him.”

Even if, with a miracle, he could make it past them, Theon could not run fast enough to make it to the questionable safety of the yard. If he called for help, who would hear him? And if anyone did... likely as not they would join in. 

_They are only three. Three, I can take three, I am used to it now._ He briefly thought of Stannis. _They will make me bleed. He will not want to fuck me after._

Missing Eye advanced and shoved him down to the floor. Theon caught himself just barely on his hands and could not suppress a pained groan as the stumps scraped over stone. He bit his tongue. Was it better to keep silent, or to cry? Ramsay had liked it when Theon cried. Liked hearing what he did to him. To Reek.

Theon’s mind reeled. _Flee in your mind, to somewhere they cannot reach you._

A memory came to his mind unbidden, the first nameday he had spent at Winterfell. Lady Catelyn had given him a cake, sweet with honey and cream. They had given him his own room, so he no longer had to share with Robb and Jon. And other things as well: Robb had given him a weird little stone, formed almost like a longboat, and Lord Eddard had presented him with a dagger from Mikken’s forge. Theon had held Sansa on his lap, who had told him that she liked him better than Robb because he could carry her around, and would she become his wife someday?

It was a sweet memory, that one, or the one where Robb had climbed in his bed at night, how old had Theon been, two-and-ten? Robb had been too old to call for his mother when he was scared, and, trembling from a nightmare, after Old Nan had told them a particularly gruesome story before bedtime, he had stood beside Theon’s bed with chattering teeth. Robb had been asleep in seconds once he was safely tugged in next to Theon, and Theon stroked over his tangled locks, once, and thought of his own brothers.

Hands were upon his breeches, tugging at them, and Theon stared straight ahead and pretended to be elsewhere, far away.

A whirl of white fur, red eyes and sharp teeth came out of nowhere. Ghost jumped at the man on top of Theon, and the force of the impact made them both hit the floor hard. Broad Shoulders rolled away, trying to get to his feet. Ghost ignored him and attacked Missing Eye, who had let go of Theon and scrambled backward with his face white with fear, half crawling in a submissive posture. Ghost dragged him to the ground, and while the man froze in terror, the direwolf’s teeth closed mere inches from his throat. 

Red Beard was not as easily intimidated. He, too, had let go of Theon, only to lift his club and glower at Ghost. “Stupid beast. Why do help him? Your master should be glad that we take care of the whore for him. If Snow’s too squeamish to dirty his lily-white hands, he shouldn’t sit on the throne of Winterfell.” 

It turned out Ghost was not impressed by his speech. He left Missing Eye, who had wet his breeches, lying on the floor and advanced. With his teeth bared, red eyes glowing with fury, he was a truly frightening sight. Even Ringleader could not hold his gaze for long. “Don’t you dare,” he warned, but his voice wavered.

His aim was off and the club hit air as Ghost leaped at him and knocked him down. With a sickening crack his head, Ringleader’s head hit the ground. He did not get up again. 

Silence, for a moment, and then there was the sound of hastily approaching steps. “Ghost,” Snow called. “Come here.”

Theon curled up on the floor. _Oh, no, please not._

“Greyjoy?” Snow stared at him, then at the men on the floor, and his frown turned into a disapproving scowl. He did not waste his time with questions, Theon had to give him that. 

“Ghost. Let them go.”

Missing Eye and Broad Shoulders got to their feet slowly, with a wary eye on the direwolf, who watched them closely, growling without making a sound. They pulled Ringleader up from the floor, unconscious and bleeding sluggishly from a head wound. 

“You are the Wull’s men, is that true?”

None of them replied at first. They exchanged glances before Broad Shoulders spat on the ground, just only missing Theon’s face. “Aye, my lord.”

“You better go to him and tell him, then. May he decide what to do with you, as you have violated the laws of hospitality, and attacked a man under the king’s protection.”

They paled.

“The mountain clans have always been Winterfell’s allies,” Snow continued. “And therefore I will leave your punishment to your lord, whose responsibility you are. Should any such offense occur again, however, I will not be so lenient. Tell your lord, and make sure you admit to the whole truth – what you did and what you intended to do. Because I certainly will when I talk to the king. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Broad Shoulders said.

Missing Eye rose his chin defiantly. “He is a traitor, and he deserves it.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Snow said. “Nor for me. He is the king’s prisoner, and I am sworn to protect him.

“But...”

Snow drew his bastard sword in a fluid movement. The blade gleamed in the light of the torch. “Do you defy me?”

Missing Eye took a step back. “No, my lord.”

“Then go and do as it say.”

They left. 

Ghost sat down on his hind legs, then, after a moment, lay down and yawned. 

Snow crouched down beside Theon. “Greyjoy. Are you hurt?” He offered his hand.

Theon ignored it and slowly got to his feet. His left hand was bleeding and the laces of his breeches were torn, but nothing worse had happened to him. Relief and humiliation, fear and anger warred in his mind, too closely entangled to separate from each other. 

Theon sneered at Snow. “Come to make sure the king’s whore is not harmed?”

“That was Ghost, actually,” Snow said with an unreadable expression. “He would not stop pawing at the door and came for you straight away.”

That seemed odd to Theon. “Why?”

“I wish I knew.” Snow shrugged and watched while Theon straightened his clothes. “Why did you not fight back?”

“What use would that have been?” Theon asked. It had been close, too close. He shuddered. 

“Did that happen before?”

“No.”

Snow frowned, and Theon shook his head. “You need not bother.”

“They will be punished. The Wull cannot let this go. It will mean the whip for the three of them.”

Theon shrugged. “It will not make them like me better.”

“I know. But what matters is your safety.”

“What is it to you?” Theon asked with real curiosity. 

Snow hesitated, but did not answer; instead he had a question of his own: “Do you still wish to die? Because this seems like a painful and unpleasant way to accomplish it.”

“No,” Theon said scornfully. “No, I do not wish to die, which is why I did not attempt to fight back. They would have raped me, but they would have let me live. Likely.”

“The Theon I once knew...”

“Is _dead_ ”, Theon said. “I cannot fight with a sword, I cannot shoot a bow. I cannot even... it does not matter. Things change. People change, too, and rarely for the better. Leave it at that.”

“You could learn to fight with a shortsword, or at least train with a dagger. If you cannot hold a bow, maybe you could use a crossbow instead. There are ways...”

“You need not tell me, I know that. Who, do you think, would help me train? Who would give me a weapon? I do not even know where I will be once...”

“Once?”

_Once the king tires of me. Once the king wakes up from his stupor and sees the way you look at him._

Theon shrugged. “Just let it go.”

“No. I have seen you walking around, always hiding, too scared to look anyone in the eyes. You are ashamed of yourself, and it shows. Whoever looks at you sees a man who will not stand up for himself, and instead of your regret, they only see you guilt and your weakness.”

Theon needed no reminder of how pathetic he had become. “Have you become a septon at the Wall, bastard?” he hissed at Snow. “You need not preach like on. No one made you come to my rescue. Leave me alone.”

“’Bastard? Leave me alone?’ Is that the best you can do?” Snow had the gall to look amused. “You used to be so much better at insulting me.”

His arrogance made Theon’s blood boil. “So ‘bastard’ does not rile you anymore? It only took three years at the Wall for you to grow up and see that it is still better to be a Snow, the son of a lord, than a commoner without a name. Congratulations. What about ‘deserter’, then? A quitter, and a failure? Why are you here, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch? I forgot. It is because your sworn brothers detested you so much they tried to kill you. You are only alive because the red priestess thought you were of more use to her as the Lord of Winterfell, or, should I better say, the king’s puppet?”

And that, obviously, hit home. Theon saw Snow pale. _Better,_ he thought. _Much better._ Snow’s fury was an old acquaintance. Theon would greet it with much more enthusiasm than his disdain or, even worse, his pity. The loathing of old had been mutual, a declaration of dislike that resulted from knowing each other’s vulnerabilities too well, but Snow’s contempt now had the bitter taste that came from having an actual reason. 

“I am no one’s puppet,” Snow said with anger in his voice. “And I am no deserter, nor a turncloak; I never betrayed those who trusted me. I fought for what I thought was right, and you are hardly in a position to judge me. You call _me_ a failure? What do you call yourself?”

 _Many things._ “I know what I am. It seems you do not. You are still only a bastard. You only wear the direwolf crest because no trueborn siblings of yours are left. Where were you while they fought for the honor of their house, fought for your father’s life? Where were you when Robb gained a victory in the Whispering Wood, where he took Jaime Lannister prisoner? Where were you when he treated with the Late Lord Frey, making promises he did not keep? Were you at his side to keep him from marrying the first willing girl he met? No, you were not. Even better, where were you when I betrayed him and took Winterfell? Not here, as I recall. And now that your brothers are dead or missing, you return and pretend to be the man your father was.”

“Do you truly dare to blame me?” Snow asked, with disbelief on his face. “My father sent me to the Wall, I did my duty. Do you think I did not want to go, to avenge father? And when I heard you had taken Winterfell... be glad I did not come for you then.”

“Would that have been worse than Ramsay?” Theon asked. “I believe not. I wish you _had_ come, to give me a swift death in the way of the North.” 

_I deserved it, and it would have been better than the Dreadfort. Better than becoming Reek._

“I used to dream of it. Chained to the wall, with nothing to eat for days, I dreamed that Robb, or even you, would come and kill me. I dreamed of putting my head on the block. Sometimes I could smell the air, cold and clear, and see the lands of Winterfell, and take my last breath. Then the blade came down and I inevitably woke, and I cried because I was still alive and he would not let me die.”

Theon felt weak in his knees. He found the wall in his back and was glad for its strength. “One day he came down to the dungeons. He gave me a letter to read. I could not hold it with my own hands, so he held it for me. It was a letter from Roose, and it said that Robb was dead, slain at the Twins. I was so hungry, I could barely understand it, but when I did... I wanted to die.”

“He took me from the dungeons that day, brought me up. I could see the sunset over the lake, the light. He gave me something to eat, real food. I refused to eat, at first, but it smelled so good, and I was so hungry. He said that if I did not eat, he would flay another finger, because I was an ungrateful pet. I ate, and it tasted so good, and he said that it was like a feast for our own wedding, his and mine, because I had been given to him and he would keep me and protect me. And then it all came up again, and he took another finger after all.”

“I prayed to the gods, all the gods I knew, that someone would come for me. Anyone. They never did. They came for Lady Arya. They did not know she was Jeyne, or they would not have come at all.” 

Theon realized he was crying. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, angry at himself. “This, _this_ is nothing. It is just life. They can beat me, they can rape me. They cannot hurt me, not where it matters.”

Snow said nothing for a moment. 

Theon stared on the floor, blinking to keep the tears at bay. “I don’t complain,” he added.

“You are free of Ramsay, he can never hurt you again. You are still alive. That has to count for something.”

Theon huffed out a laugh that was closer to a sob. “Are you trying to console me?”

Snow gave him a little smile, half-sad, half-exasperated. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Theon wiped his face again and straightened his stance. “No need. I might still be a prisoner, but, as you said, Ramsay is dead. Nothing can be as bad. I know where I stand, and I... accept it.” _Mostly._

Snow watched him from wide grey eyes. “Stannis does not hurt you, does he? I mean...”

“Stannis keeps me alive. I won’t complain about that.”

“I got the impression you were not...” Snow hesitated. A faint blush rose and colored his cheeks. 

“Not what?”

“Averse to... his attentions.”

Theon stared at him. “Tell me you are not serious,” he said weakly, after a minute. “And here I thought _I_ had become a girl. ‘Averse to his attentions’? Do you think he _courts_ me?”

“No,” Snow said, and the blush became more obvious. He had fair skin for a man who spent so much time outside. “But...”

“I told you already. He _fucks_ me. That is all there is.”

Snow was taken aback by his rudeness. They way his nostrils flared, Theon had seriously offended his sensibilities. Theon shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, Snow. The king does not give me flowers, or reads to poems to me under the full moon.”

“Yet when you...” Snow made a pause, obviously searching for the right words. “When you share the king’s bed...”

Theon rolled his eyes. “How old are you?” he asked tiredly. “You cannot tell me you are still the innocent boy who used to blush whenever a serving wench smiled at him. They say you took a wildling wife beyond the Wall. Can you still not say the words?”

“Fine,” Snow said with his teeth clenched. “When the king _fucked_ you in my chambers you seemed to enjoy it quite a little bit.”

“Yes,” Theon said and refused to give Snow the satisfaction of showing embarrassment. Inside he cringed, shying away from the implication, but did his best not to let Snow see it. “That does not mean I would do it willingly, given a choice.”

 _Are you sure?_ a voice inside his own head said. 

_Be quiet,_ he hissed back. 

Snow looked as if he felt queasy. “Why would he -”

Theon sighed. “Open your eyes, Snow. Stannis is just a man. No better and no worse than others, and certainly not like a hero from the tales of old. ”

“I never said he was,” Snow said, annoyed.

“The way you look at him says differently, Snow.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, dear gods,” Theon said. “Tell me you are not truly that clueless. How can you not know that of yourself?”

Snow flinched. “I do not.. ”

“Know what I am talking about? Of course not.”

Theon almost laughed. The expression on Snow’s face mirrored the king’s when Theon had raised the same topic with him. Jon and Stannis were so alike at times, it was disconcerting. 

“Lie to yourself as much as you want,” Theon said. “But I would suggest you stop pretending and instead ask me what you really want to know.”

“And what would that be?”

“What it is like to be fucked by the king.”

Snow blushed deeply. 

Theon. “Oh, how sweet. Should I phrase it differently, then? You, Jon Snow, want to know what it is like to be loved and bedded like a maid by Stannis Baratheon.”

He felt more like his old self than he had in quite some time. It made them more even, somehow: Snow was a lord now and regent of Winterfell, but Theon could still make him blush. 

“Ask,” Theon offered with a sly smile. “Ask, and I will tell you; but you have to say the words.”

“No.” The look in Snow’s eyes said he would not give in. Jaw set, hands clenched into fists, a dark glare. _Oh, yes. Lord Commander, my arse; like this, you are still a boy._

“Fine. You could find out yourself,” he said. “He would not throw you out of his bed.” 

“Will you stop that,” Snow growled at him. 

Theon raised his eyebrows. “Why would I? I have seen the way he looks at you.”

_Like a starving man faced with a feast. He does not dare touch for fear he might not be able to stop himself. He does not think it is for him to have, and averts his eyes._

_If he ever looked at me that way, I would come to him willingly, and do whatever it takes to make him let me stay._

“You could go to him. To his solar, in the evening, to his bedroom, at night. Drop your breeches for him, bend over. You would like it, Snow. A man’s touch is different than a woman’s. Rougher, for one, and you needn’t hold back so much, and where you are used to making her yield for you, you’d be the one conquered, held down, at his mercy.”

Snow stared at him, eyes wide. His breath went too fast and shallow to keep up the pretense he was unaffected by Theon’s words.

“Kisses. Those are different, too,” Theon continued. “The king is taller than you, he would tilt you head back, keep you in place, take what he wants. He learned how to kiss from me, do you believe that?”

“Stop that,” Snow said, with a voice hoarse with anger and something different.

Theon could not stop. He felt lightheaded. “It would be almost like me kissing you.”

“Greyjoy, stop that!”

“Only the king is less gentle. What he wants is to possess you, and you would give in to him, open up for him. You long for it Snow, to give him everything. Your sword, your skill, your hands, your mouth. Your ass, split open on his cock. Would you like that?”

Snow slammed him against the wall. His hands were like vices on Theon’s shoulders. “I said stop that, or you...” 

“Or what?” Theon whispered. Their eyes were mere inches apart. “What will you do to me? I will not fight you. Are you going to beat me, knock me down to the ground, and teach me a lesson, like they did?”

Snow stiffened at that. He let go of Theon, giving him a last shove. “Your are not worth it, Greyjoy. You are a traitor, a craven...”

“Says who? The bastard who cannot admit the truth, even to himself? Deny it all you want, Snow. I know you.”

“You know nothing.”

Theon smiled, and went for the kill, an arrow loosened from the string. “Of course, I know nothing. Is that why your breeches tent like this?”

Snow was still too predictable, too easily read, for Theon, who had known him all his life. Theon was prepared when the blow came, and dodged it, for once fast enough, although he stumbled a little and just barely got away in time. Snow span around to hit him again, but Theon was faster, and intercepted his clenched fist by seizing his arm with both of his, and the way they were standing, it was easy to use the force of the movement to back Snow against the wall and press an arm to his throat, the threat of crushing his windpipe a valid one, dire enough to make Snow freeze. 

Theon had a moment to look in furious, grey eyes, and before he could make himself stop, he let go of Snow, removed his arm and used one hand to briefly cup Snow’s groin, and the other to tangle in Snow’s hair and pull his mouth to Theon’s.

It was not a kiss so much as a declaration of war. While Snow was too stunned to react, Theon took full advantage, tasting his lips, learning the shape of it – full and soft, made for kissing. He did not expect it to last more than a moment, and after the initial exploration, Theon pulled back. “This it how it is done, Snow.” 

Snow made an inarticulate sound. His eyes were wide and dark. While Theon had broken the contact, they were still close enough to share each other’s breath, close enough that Theon could lean in, and murmur into Snow’s ear: “If you want more, you need only say so.”

He expected it to be the last straw that made Snow finally hit him. What he did not expect was for Snow to turn his head and capture Theon’s lips again, biting his lower lip. Snow’s hands came up to Theon’s shoulders, to keep him in place, and Theon stopped thinking and gave in to the pure, raw need that was coiling in his stomach. 

Somebody had taught the bastard how to kiss, and Theon reveled in it: the effortless slide and twining of their tongues, tasting each other’s mouths, open, so open, until they could not breathe anymore and had to stop, panting. Like he was caught in a fever, he sought out Snow’s mouth again after a few ragged breaths, sucked on his lower lip and bit down on it, gently, not sure yet in the use of his new teeth, and swiped his tongue over it to soothe the pain. 

Snow made a tiny sound at that, almost a moan, and he tilted his head back and opened up for Theon. They were almost of one height, and although Snow let Theon take the lead, there was nothing weak, nothing passive in the way he returned the kiss. Theon pulled him closer, until they touched from head to knee, and he could feel the unmistakable bulge of Snow’s cock against his thigh, and did not think about it, but pressed in, just so. Snow’s finger dug into his shoulders. He broke the kiss and threw his head back, his head hitting the wall, and gasping. 

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Theon whispered, and it was true; whatever it had been in the beginning – a lesson, a warning, an attempt to regain superiority or only to even the scales – is was now something different altogether. Theon’s hands came up on their own to run through Snow’s hair and keep him in place, just the way he was, with his throat bared. Theon pressed his lips to the warm, flushed skin, open-mouthed, and let them wander to the sensitive skin behind Snow’s ear. Snow shuddered, and Theon shifted his weight and pushed, a little, against his cock. Snow keened. The next moment, his hands wandered from Theon’s shoulders to the his head, thumbs under his jaw, the other fingers cupping Theon’s cheek. He pushed Theon away, almost gently. “Stop.”

Theon tried to draw a steadying breath and licked his lips. He wanted... he looked at Snow, with his kiss-swollen lips and tousled hair, eyes wide and dark and stunned.

It made no sense. He could not want Snow.

And yet he did. He wanted, with a fierce, grim desire, that came as a complete surprise. How had that happened? He had never wanted a man before. Stannis... well, that was different. _But you liked that, too. Kissing, touching, even... getting fucked._

Theon realized he was still holding onto Snow. He let his hands drop to the side, those useless, disfigured claws, and already he missed the sensations of Jon’s soft hair, of the smooth skin on the nape of his neck. Theon tried for a mocking smile. A grimace was all he managed. “Quite enthusiastic, Snow. Got a bit distracted? I guess I was right after all.”

“Greyjoy,” Snow said, voice flat. “Shut up.”

His words did not indicate immediate violence, so Theon counted it as a win. He took a step back. It hit him then how cold it was, and how warm he had been just seconds ago. _On fire._ Theon shook his head and tried to find something to say. “You want Stannis, Snow, then go to him,” Theon said. 

Snow stared at him. “I wish I understood what goes on in that thick head of yours.”

“No, you don’t,” Theon said. He turned around and walked away, with his usual hobbling gait. It felt somehow more awkward than usual, and only after a second the realization came to him that it was from the tightness in his groin. 

It should not have been possible – he’d thought it would never happen again – but his cock was hard, almost painfully so. 

Theon walked until he was out of sight, until there was a wall for support and he could lean against it. He closed his eyes. He felt it, now, and wondered how he could have missed it. The want was still there, a fire in his blood. He thought of Snow’s mouth under his, wet and hot, and of Stannis’ hands on his hips as the king thrust into him, Theon’s body a vessel to pour in his lust, to fill over and over again. 

Theon bit his lips, drawing blood with the ivory brace the maester had given him. His shoved one trembling hand down his breeches. He stroked his cock with eyes closed and his mind reeling. This... _this_. 

But relief did not come. His manhood flagged and the rough, dry touch started to hurt. Theon let go and sagged against the wall. 

He was alone, in darkness, the only sound his harsh breathing. In his mind, though, he heard Ramsay’s voice. _Not even a man._

_Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak._


	22. Jon VI

“We will march for the Dreadfort a week hence,” the king said. “After that, Moat Cailin. Then the Wall.” 

The lords and commanders bowed to the king and murmured their assent. Stannis dismissed them with a curt nod. 

Jon remained, steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation.

Stannis frowned at him. “What do you want?” It was not a particularly friendly query, but he addressed Jon less formally than the other lords or knights, and Jon thought it counted for something.

When he refused to answer, Stannis looked at him more suspiciously. His frown turned into a dark scowl. “Whatever you have to say, I am sure I will not like it in the least.”

“No, You Grace. Probably not.”

“I suppose it is too much to ask for you to keep silent?” Stannis asked sarcastically.

Jon did not reply. 

“Out with it,” the king bid.

“Your Grace, as the Regent of Winterfell, I ask of you the command of the northern host,” Jon said. 

“Not an unreasonable demand,” Stannis said. “You can have Umber and Manderly, as well as their bannermen.”

That would not do.

“The mountain lords, too.”

“No,” the king said bluntly. “I have need of them.”

Jon had known Stannis would not give in easily. The mountain clans formed the larger part of his host these days, and if Jon took command of them, that left the king with an insignificant party of stormlanders.

“They are sworn to Winterfell.”

“That may have been the case before the war,” Stannis said. “Now they are mine. Once the war is over, you may have them back.” 

He sounded, for all intents and purposes, like a boy who was jealously guarding his toys. Jon wanted to laugh. “I am not sure it works that way.”

“Need I remind you, Lord Snow, who advised me to call them to my banners?”

“You made me the Regent of Winterfell, Your Grace. How can I rule the North if you refuse to acknowledge my authority?”

“An authority that you have by my mercy, Lord Snow, as you – and they – very well know. My answer is no.”

“Your Grace...”

Stannis’ gaze was cold and silently dared Jon to defy him once more. It would be utterly foolish. The king might show a certain lenience toward him, but if Jon pushed him any further, he would find himself in the dungeons, or worse. 

_Stannis is the king,_ Jon reminded himself once more. One did not argue with the king. Even Jon’s father had known when to bend, and Robert had been a far more agreeable man than Stannis.

“As you bid.” Jon bowed. 

Stannis was still angry. “You make me regret the day I took your oath.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Jon wondered who dared to disturb the king, but the question was answered when the guards announced Greyjoy and the king simply nodded. 

Theon entered the room with his arms full of scrolls. He bowed awkwardly to the king – less deeply than Jon had – and turned to the table to put down his burden. 

“I did what I could, but they are still inaccurate,” he said as a way of greeting. “Especially the map of Torrhen’s Square. I have never been there, so Your Grace might want to ask someone who actually has.”

Jon raised his eyebrows in silent amazement.

The king said nothing, and Theon turned to look at him. He saw Jon and tensed. His posture changed; while he had been relatively at ease before, now he was clearly alert.

“I apologize, Your Grace. I was not aware...” Theon stopped himself, bowed again before both Stannis and Jon and retreated. He displayed the manners of a courtier, impeccable and practiced, but he had clearly been taken by surprise and from the haunted look in his eyes, he knew it had been a lapse. 

“Be on your guard,” Stannis said as a rather mild reprimand. “I need the map of the Dreadfort as well as of Moat Cailin. Pin those to the table.” 

Theon obeyed. His eyes met Jon’s briefly, and there was something enigmatic in them. Jon almost blushed. _This is how it is done, Snow._

The king’s gaze rested on Theon for a moment and wandered from him to Jon. The close scrutiny caused a nervous, fluttering sensation in his belly, and Jon swallowed. Those dark blue eyes stated the king’s intent clearly. 

“Leave us,” Stannis addressed Jon, and there was no room left for doubt. _The king will bed Theon, here and now,_ Jon thought, numbly, and obeyed.

He tried not to think about it as he left the solar and crossed the yard, fast enough it could be called a flight. His guards clearly wondered, but Jon did not bother with an explanation. 

Ghost padded toward him. Jon slowed down and petted him, grateful for the distraction. 

Suddenly the bell rang three times in a row, announcing a riding party approaching from the south. The signal was repeated a moment later, but the smaller bell with its high, tingling chime that meant an enemy force was conspicuously silent. Shorty thereafter a guard came running from the south gate, heading for the great keep. Jon caught his attention with a call, and was confronted with an excitedly fidgeting boy a couple of years younger than him.

“Riders from the south, m’lord, some hundred men, Reynold says. They are sending their banners ahead, and there’s a banner with frogs and one with a lizard-thing, and a fish on stripes of red and blue. Reynold says that’s a Tully banner from the riverlands.”

“A lizard?” Jon inquired. “On green?”

“Dunno, m’lord.” The boy shrugged apologetically.

“How far off?”

“Half a league, on the kingsroad.”

“Approaching fast?”

“No, m’lord, slowly, as if they’re waiting for us to see them.”

“I need to see it for myself. Report to the king’s guard. Tell them they can find me on the outer wall.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Accompanied by Ghost, Jon went and climbed the gate. A man – Reynold, it seemed – held far glasses in his hand, which he offered Jon without a word.

Indeed, there they were: the lizard-lion on grey green, the banner of House Reed, the nine frogs on or of House Marsh, and others. Jon stared but failed to understand. What were the crannogmen doing here? He scanned the field for the Tully banner the guard had mentioned. Edmure Tully was a prisoner of the Lannisters, had he somehow escaped?

The banner in question finally came in view, and Jon inhaled sharply. That was the Tullys’ coat of arms, yes, except... The famous jumping trout was _black_. 

~~~~~

Half a league away the host had stopped and sent out their standard bearers, giving Winterfell enough time to prepare for guests and send out an envoy. 

Jon had ridden out with two dozen guards to meet them. The king had insisted on coming as well. Their bannermen were carrying the Baratheon stag enclosed by the fiery heart, and the slightly changed Stark banner Jon had taken as his own coat of arms – a white, red-eyed direwolf on a field of black. The sigil had been Manderly’s idea. 

“The crannogmen were my father’s most trusted bannermen, but the other lords are not so fond of them,” Jon explained to Stannis as they left the castle. “Howland Reed fought at my father’s side in the war.”

“I recall that fact,” Stannis said. “The crannogmen do not bother me, but what is the Blackfish doing here?”

Jon had taken the far glasses with him and counted the other banners as they approached. “The silver fist on scarlet – House Glover. The black bear over deep green wood – House Mormont. I wish I understood what is going on.”

Stannis’ gaze was grim. “We will find out.”

As they got closer, Jon could discern faces and figures. 

Maege Mormont, the Old Bear’s sister and head of her house. Galbart Glover. He had thought them lost, slain at the Red Wedding. He did not know the man wearing the crest of with the nine frogs, but it was likely Lynel Marsh, Bowen Marsh’s cousin and heir of his house. A man, tall and lean with a weathered face, who could only be Brynden Tully, although his hair had gone grey. 

The Blackfish was the first to speak. He bowed his head before Stannis. “Your Grace. It has been quite some time since we met.”

A murmur rose amongst Stannis’ knights, pleased and relieved: the Blackfish had just acknowledged Stannis’ authority. 

“Lord Brynden,” Stannis replied with the curtest nod. “I take it Riverrun has indeed fallen, as it was reported to us?”

“My nephew surrendered to the Kingslayer,” Tully replied. “Riverrun is now held by the Freys.”

“Not unexpected, but certainly regrettable.” 

The Blackfish nodded. His eyes fell on Jon, who tried to stay calm. Lord Brynden’s cool gaze was familiar; Jon had seen it a thousand times on Lady Catelyn’s face. 

Brynden Tully had no reason to love Jon, and it seemed likely as not that he would share his niece’s resentment. 

“Lord Jon Snow,” Tully said with a nod. “We have never met before, but I have heard a lot of you.”

Jon smiled, relieved. “I could say the same, Lord Brynden. Welcome to Winterfell.”

Stannis, clearly annoyed by the exchange of formalities now that the most important question was answered to his satisfaction, shook his head. “Lord Reed,” he interrupted. “What are the news from the Neck?”

Howland Reed – Jon had never met him in person, so he could only assume that the small, lank man, hair streaked with gray, was indeed the Lord of Greywater Watch – also bowed before the king. 

“Your Grace,” he said in a quiet voice. “We have come to Winterfell victorious. Three weeks ago we took Moat Cailin from Roose Bolton’s forces. We are here to renew our oaths of allegiance to Winterfell, and we come bearing gifts. Hallis Mollen is bringing the bones of Lord Eddard Stark, so they can be laid to rest in the crypts. Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover come from the riverlands. They carry a letter written by Robb Stark, naming his heir after the demise of his younger, trueborn brothers.”

Maege Mormont cleared her throat. “Your Grace; Lord Snow. The letter is sealed, but I was told the content. Robb Stark proclaimed his brother, Jon Snow, as the rightful heir of Winterfell.”

~~~~~

_… if no trueborn son is given to me before my death, I name my brother Jon Snow as the Lord of Winterfell, King in the North and Head of House Stark. He shall take on our father’s name, rule justly and peacefully and protect our lands and people._ 


Jon had read the letter more than once. Robb’s words were blunt and to a point. He was not addressing Jon personally, but the letter was nonetheless a declaration of love and trust.

Robb had written the letter as he believed Brand and Rickon dead. If he had seen the slightest possibility that his trueborn brothers were still alive he would not have done it. 

Robb wanted him as a Stark of Winterfell, but Jon could not oblige him. He had to refuse the request as he had refused Stannis’ offer, but it would not go over well with the lords. Robb had made his wishes very clear, there was no mistaking the intent. Even if Bran and Rickon were found, some might still see Jon as the rightful heir because Robb had willed it so, as he had not merely been the head of his house, but the King in the North. _Oh, Robb, why did you have to claim a crown that was lost two and hundred years ago? Was it not enough to be a Stark of Winterfell, did you have to break all ties to the Iron Throne? Damn you for that, and damn you for writing this letter. If only you had told Lady Mormont to speak to me in private before she announced your will to everyone else._

But of course Robb had done only what he thought necessary, and from his point of view, it had been the only option. 

Ghost nudged him, concerned, and Jon hugged him tightly and buried his face in the direwolf’s fur. 

_Robb, if I had been in your place, I would probably have done the same. Still, I almost wish you had been more of a craven, and never gone south to fight the Lannisters. It might have made you a lesser man, but at least you would still be alive, and I would not have to mourn my brother’s death._

The letter was a legacy, a curse and a blessing, and all that was left of Jon’s brother. _Robb,_ he thought. _Oh, Robb, how I miss you._  
~~~~~

To say that Stannis was unhappy about the letter was like calling the Wall high and leaving it at that: it did not even begin to describe the extent of the king’s anger.

It took the better part of the day for Jon to make it clear – to the lords and Stannis alike – that he had not the slightest inclination to claim a crown, and that he had sworn allegiance to the rightful King of Westeros, an oath he intended to keep.

While the Blackfish approved, and Reed, too, declared his consent, the others did not give up the idea of a kingdom in the North as readily. Even some of those who had sworn allegiance to Stannis more of less openly reconsidered. 

At last, Jon stood up in the Great Hall and declared, with Longclaw drawn and held in front of him, “My lords, you are talking treason. If I hear one more word of this, I will enforce the law without mercy.”

That, thankfully, settled the matter. 

The capture of Moat Cailin had proven as a more pleasant development. Now only the Dreadfort remained in the enemy’s grasp. It was held by two of Lady Walda’s relatives, who had already demanded Lady Walda be released to raise her unborn child as the heir of House Bolton. Since Stannis had no intention to do so, the castle would have to be taken by force. For once, Jon agreed with the king: there would be no concessions toward the Freys. That horse had bolted long ago. 

The next days would bring new tactical arguments, further negotiations. Tully wanted to march south, to retake the riverlands and free his nephew from Casterly Rock. Stannis still intended to fight for the Iron Throne, but there was the threat of the Others, and who knew when they might strike? 

It was far from over. Even with Winterfell taken, war was a certainty. 

~~~~~

The next day dawned with a faint light at the eastern sky. Jon stood at the king’s gate and watched the sun rise. Then air already smelled of the snow that would come during the day. They expected another bout of storms and icy rain, winter’s next reminder that they could not hope for a spring anytime soon. Jon had never seen a winter himself, and although the Starks never made the mistake of underestimating the need to prepare for the change of seasons – _Winter is Coming_ – it was still a surprise how harsh the weather could be, and how short the days. Jon felt like a boy at times, and thought that only someone who had lived through a winter could be considered a true adult.

His mind wandered north. They had heard nothing from the Wall, and Jon wished he knew what his sworn brothers were doing. Had they chosen Bowen Marsh as the Lord Commander, or someone else? Had they found a way to treat with the free folk, or had they undone all Jon had tried to accomplish? He would need to find out, and soon. Stannis and the Blackfish might march south, but he needed to return to the Wall at least once. 

Bitterness or fury about the betrayal had never come. He knew why Marsh and the others had done it. Although Jon had, at the time, thought he had made his peace with being the Lord Commander and just that, his decisions had said differently. In truth he had never ceased to be a son of Eddard Stark.

If he returned and convincingly assured them that he bore no grudge against them, they would be able to compromise. As their leader he had disregarded his sworn brothers’ objections. As the Regent of Winterfell, he could espouse the cause of the free folk more urgently, and could bargain with the Night’s Watch about sending them men and supplies. Treaties could be made, and archaic rules changed over time. They no longer had reason to regard him as a threat. 

Of course Stannis would tell him that it was a fool’s dream, and that there was only one way to deal with the black brothers – to destroy the Night’s Watch and install the king’s vassals as the lords of the ancient strongholds along the Wall. Jon would never agree with that, and he knew there was another fight between him and Stannis to come in the near future.

Jon would not have thought it possible a few years ago, but he missed his brothers, missed even his humble quarters behind the armory and the daily quarrel with the men. What had become of those he had kept close? Dolorous Edd, Satin, even his old friends Pyp and Grenn? He had no way to know. If Lady Melisandre’s escort returned, they might be able to tell him some of the things he wished to know; until then, Jon had to hope that in the aftermath of his almost-death at Castle Black, the Night’s Watch had reunited, not torn itself apart.

With those thoughts in mind and the recent revelations and resulting deliberations, it had been difficult to find sleep at night. Ghost had woken him from his restless slumber before dawn, scratching at the door and demanding to be let out, and Jon had risen as well. He had trained with Longclaw in the yard for the better part of an hour, just practicing blows over and over again, aiming for precision and quickness over strength. After that he had climbed the gate. There were little things that could lift one’s spirit as the sun returning for a new day, its light a growing pool of faint yellow and gold at the horizon. 

Jon watched until the sun was up and went back to the great keep to break his fast. He saw a man standing at the doorstep of the guest house, who was watching him and lifted his hand in greeting as he passed by.

Jon recognized Howland Reed. He smiled and nodded at him, and Reed took it for a permission to approach him with silent, cautious steps. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning,” Jon replied. “I hope you have been sleeping well, my lord, and found the accommodations to your liking.”

“My own residence lacks the advantage of hot springs, and wood is scarce in the marshland,“Reed said, “So they are more luxurious than I am used to.”

“I am glad you would think so.”

“My lord – while I am sure that your duties occupy much of your time, I wish to express my wish for an audience in private.”

The request surprised him. “For what reason, my lord?”

“There is a matter I feel the need to discuss with you, and while it is of little concern to the outcome of the war, or even the fate of the North, I regard it as important enough to bring it to your attention.”

“Which kind of matter, if I may ask?” Jon was intrigued. He had very rarely encountered a man before who held the same air of sincerity and seriousness as Reed. But he could not imagine why the crannogman wished to talk to him.

“Even that, Lord Snow, I would prefer to tell you in confidence.”

Reed said nothing further, and only regarded him with a quiet anticipation. Under his soul-searching gaze, Jon felt incapable to decline.

“Very well. Will you break you fast with me, my lord?”

“It would be my pleasure. As for the things I wish to bring to your attention, however, they are best addressed after.”

“As you wish.”

Jon nodded to one of the guards, who went to deliver his orders for a meal. 

~~~~~

Reed turned out to be amiable company. While not exactly talkative, he often gifted Jon with a smile that showed in his eyes rather and in the small quirk of his lips. Jon wondered; Reed had lost his children – they had gone missing along with Bran and Rickon, and been declared dead by Theon – but Reed, showed little signs of grieving. Even as Jon, curious, addressed the topic, Reed only smiled a little sadly. “I miss my children, yes,” was the only thing he said. “But I am sure that, wherever they are, they are safe and have each other.”

Jon was hungry, but Reed only ate a few slices of bread. He shrugged and smiled again. “The feast last night was more than enough to appease my hunger and then some. The goose was excellent, and I am afraid I had more than my fair share. It is winter; my men seldom eat as much.”

There was little Jon could say to that. Although Reed’s words held no reprimands, it made Jon feel ashamed. The free folk, the men at the Wall, the commoners who had suffered from the war: they were likely starving by now. 

They finished their meal in companionable silence. Once Jon’s plate was empty, Reed cleared his throat. 

“I always wondered what had become of you. You were but a babe when I last saw you.”

“You saw me as a child?” Jon asked. 

“You must know that I was one of Ned’s bannermen during the war.”

“He said so, yes. My father held you in high regard.”

“And well he should,” Reed said with another of his easy smiles. “I saved his life, once, but that is a story for a different time. I fought at his side from the beginning to the end. Where Ned went, I did, too, which is why I was present the day you were born.” 

He looked Jon in the eye. “You look a lot like your lady mother.”

Jon stared at him, not daring to believe what he had just heard. “My... lady mother?” 

“I take it that Ned never told you the truth about her? I thought maybe he would, before he sent you to the Wall.”

Jon wet his lips with his tongue. “No. He never did.”

Reed sighed. “He had his reasons, believe me.”

“You said you knew my mother?” Jon asked, his throat tight with something he could not even name. 

“I did, and I dare say I knew her well. You bear an uncanny resemblance to her.”

That confused Jon. “But... everyone always said I looked like my lord father.” 

He had heard often enough that he had more of a Stark than most of his half-siblings.

Reed shook his head. “I see nothing of your father in you. But then, I never met him in person.”

Jon stared at him, uncomprehending. 

“As much as it pains me I have to be the one to tell you,” Reed said. “You are not Eddard Stark’s son.” 

The world was spinning around Jon, turning upside down while he listened, and he found himself held in place by Reeds’ words as if the crannogman was holding a blade to his throat. He swallowed, opened his mouth to say something – anything – and no words came out.

“What do you know about the beginning of Robert Baratheon’s rebellion?”

“Only what everyone knows,” Jon said, confused. “Prince Rhaegar abducted Lyanna Stark, who had been betrothed to Robert...”

“Yes,” Reed said. “He abducted her, and held her captive at the Tower of Joy. The resulting war lasted a little over a year. After the Sack of King’s Landing, Ned went south to lift the siege of Storm’s End, and from there he rode further south to free his sister, with only a few of his most trusted men. That much is common knowledge. Lyanna lay on her deathbed with a fever when he found her in the Tower of Joy. That, too, that, is a truth often told.”

Jon could not even guess what Reed intended to say. It seemed weirdly irrelevant, and yet there had to be a reason Reed recited those facts.

“I was with Ned when we reached the Tower of Joy after a long journey. It was guarded by knights of the kingsguard. I assume that you know what the kingsguard’s foremost duty is? I wish not to lecture you, or doubt your knowledge, but it is important that you understand.”

“To guard the king, and his family,” Jon said, his head reeling, and swallowed again around the lump in his throat. His hands were clenching around the edge of the table.

“The king and his closest relatives, yes.” Reed sighed and took a deep, steady breath.

“Three knights of the kingsguard guarded the Tower and denied us entrance. Prince Rhaegar had been defeated at the Battle of the Trident by Robert months ago. Aerys the Mad King had been slain in King’s Landing by Jaime Lannister. Prince Rhaegar’s children had been murdered as well, and the only remaining members of the Targaryen family, Prince Viserys and his newborn sister, had fled from Dragonstone, seeking refuge in the Free Cities. The war was lost, and word of that had already reached Dorne, yet there they were, refusing to let us pass. They gave their life to guard Lyanna Stark.”

Jon nodded. His throat felt as dry as dust. 

“Six of us stood against the three of them. We fought and won, but only Ned and I were alive in the end. We went inside and found Lyanna in her bed chamber, in childbirth. She had been in labor for two whole days. With Neds help and mine, both of us ignorant of midwifery, she bore her child, yet the birth cost her too much strength and too much blood. She died in Neds arms, but with her last words, she made him promise to protect her babe from Robert’s wrath and never betray her secret.”

“Ned made me promise, too, and I never broke his trust, not once in all those years. Now, however, the time has come break the silence. You, Jon Snow, are Prince Rhaegar’s son.”

“No,” Jon said. “No.” He could not believe it. 

Reed continued with a sad, regretful shake of his head. “Lady Lyanna was dead. We took her body with us and rode south. In Kingsgrave we found a woman called Wylla, who had just lost a new-born babe. She agreed to nurse you instead. From there we rode to Starfall to bring back Ser Arthur Dayne’s sword to his sister Ashara. We stayed there for quite some time, as it was impossible to return to King’s Landing with an orphaned babe without raising questions. In Starfall the plan was born to disguise you as Ned’s bastard son. You might have heard a rumor or two stating that your mother was Lady Ashara Dayne. Aye, Lady Ashara had been with a Stark child, conceived at the tournament of Harrenhal, but it was your uncle Brandon’s offspring, not Ned’s, and the poor babe was stillborn. For good reason, though, Ned never denied the rumors outright. Not even his lady wife could learn the truth. They had only known each other for so short a time, he could not take the risk to tell her, lest she let something slip in carelessness or even malice.” 

“Ned took the blame for a sin he had never committed, and he took it gladly. He felt he was the one responsible for his sister’s death, for not saving her, not arriving in time, and it was one way to alleviate the guilt. Only that way he could fulfill the promise to protect you; had someone, anyone, told Robert Baratheon about your true origin, he would not have spared your life in his hatred of Targaryen blood.”

“I warned Ned once, and told him that secrets like these always come at a price. I told him it would take a toll on his marriage, and on you, as he would not be able to tell you the truth. But he would keep you safe and keep his promise, no matter the cost, and I know for a fact that he loved you as much as his trueborn children. I was there the day he held you in his arms for the first time. His eyes were full of worry, and grief, yet also of a love and pride so strong it took my breath away.”

Jon barely felt the tears running down his face. He had never allowed himself to grieve for his father, too angry about the treason that had taken his life. He had never allowed himself to love his father without restraint. Since he had been old enough to know he was a bastard, he had also resented Lord Eddard for his fate. He loved him fiercely, longed for his approval above anything else, wanted to make him proud, but nothing could change the fact that as a consequence of his father’s misdeed, he was always less than his siblings.

Lord Stark treated all his children, even Jon, with the same loving care, but he was a busy man, a Lord with duties and obligations, and had not much time to spare for them. Jon’s siblings had their lady mother, but Jon no one but his father, and Lady Catelyn begrudged him even that.

Always less in the others’ eyes, always a shame and a reminder of his lord father’s indiscretion. If Lady Catelyn had known who he was, would it have been any different? Would Robb have treated him as an equal – a prince’s son, albeit still a Snow and not a Targaryen? 

_Targaryen._ The name, hated and and despised by King Robert and his allies, felt alien on his tongue. _I am of the dragon’s blood._

He had grown up in Winterfell, a man of the North, a Stark in all but name. Not Lord Eddard’s son, though, but Lady Lyanna’s. His lady mother. Had she loved him? Had she wanted him? 

The tears stained the collar of his tunic, and Jon did not care. “My mother,” he said in a voice foreign to himself. “Prince Rhaegar – did he rape her?”

Howland Reed looked sad. “No one knows,” he said. “It was assumed, of course, by Robert. Whoever was on his side soon started saying likewise. When we came to the tower, Lyanna was in labor, feverish already, and could not tell tales of her imprisonment. To me it did not seem as if she resented Rhaegar or felt as his victim.”

“I did not talk to her for long; neither did Ned. She insisted that Ned put you in her arms, so she could hold you and look at you, even if it took all her remaining strength. ‘He has not much of Rhaegar,’ she said. ‘It is just as well. You must raise him as yours, Ned. Keep him safe from Robert’s wrath.’ She knew how Robert had called Prince Rhaegar’s slaughtered children, _dragonspawn._ ‘You have to keep him safe, and never tell anyone. Promise me, Ned...’ those were her last words.” 

Reed sighed deeply. “Lady Lyanna, as I knew her, was brave and fierce. It might be that Rhaegar took her against her will from the riverlands, but I find it hard to believe. And surely she could have escaped, had she wanted to. The Tower of Joy was no prison.”

“She was betrothed... to Robert Baratheon,” Jon whispered.

“Aye. Yet Robert was no paragon of virtue. He had already fathered a bastard daughter in the Vale, and used to bed noble and baseborn girls alike. Rhaegar, on the other hand, was not known to be violent against women, or unfaithful, although his marriage with Elia of Dorne was no love match. As he fought and fell in the Battle of the Trident, it was your mother’s name on his lips. There are few men left who knew Rhaegar, less even who knew him well: they are all dead or in exile.”

“But why... why did he not tell me?” Jon asked, desperate.

Reed sighed. “That is the boy speaking, not the man. Think, Jon Snow. I am sure he would have told you, had he had the chance. When I heard that he had gone south to serve as the king’s hand, and sent you to the Wall, I thought that maybe he had done so already. But with young Bran on his sickbed, and the death of Jon Arryn... he probably had different things on his mind. Your true heritage might be the reason he agreed to you joining the Night’s Watch at such a tender age. It would keep you away from the king, as far from King’s Landing as possible. He would not have endangered you by taking you there.”

Jon nodded slowly. 

“Jon,” Howland Reed said. The way he said it made Jon look up and meet his gaze. “As far as I know there are only two people who know the truth, Wylla and I. If you want proof for my word, go to her; she is a servant at Starfall. People there might tell you she is your mother: that was a subterfuge, one that Ned led King Robert into believing. She agreed to it, fond of you even though you were not her own child.”

“I will never speak of this to anyone else, and your secret, should you wish to keep it as one, will be safe with me and with her. As far as I am concerned, you are a Stark and the Lord of Winterfell, whether as Ned’s son or Lady Lyanna’s.”

Jon had not thought about the implications. It was too much, he could not fathom what he had been told and what it meant. 

“I thank you, my lord,” he said, and it sounded weak even to himself.

Reed seemed to understand. “You need not thank me. I only wish I could have made this easier in any way. Will you pray excuse me, my lord? I think you might want to be alone for a while. Whenever you wish to question me further, you are very welcome to do so. I have known your mother not as well as I wish I had, but I was there at the tournament of Harrenhal, and what I know of her, I will gladly tell you.”


	23. Theon XI

Theon found Snow in the crypts. He should have known to look there on his own. Lord Eddard’s bones had been laid to rest the day before in the evening, by Jon himself and a few selected guests, and it only made sense that the bastard should go there to pray and commune with the dead. 

The crypts looked exactly the same. The world changed around them. Riders came from the south, lord and ladies who demanded Theon’s death – Mormont and Glover and the Blackfish, but what else was new? – and ravens from White Harbor announced the arrival of three ships under the heart-and-stag banner, carrying survivors from Dragonstone. Stannis had been elated. Which, in his case, meant he bent over his maps with renewed eagerness, excitement showing in the dark gleam of his eyes. 

“Find me Lord Snow,” he had told Theon. “I do not know where he has gone, but the way you sneak around the castle all the time, you will no doubt know all the possible hiding places.”

Theon had become quite adept at Stannis-speech, or so he thought dryly while he went in search of Snow. The king’s words had a message for Theon, saying Stannis paid attention to Theon’s whereabouts and activities during the day, and while he did not utter his disapproval openly, he found it not exactly a worthwhile occupation to roam the castle and avoid talking to anyone. Which also explained why Theon found himself busy more often lately, fetching things, delivering messages for the king and re-drawing maps of the North although the king had knights and squires and maesters at his disposal. 

Asha had told him that Snow had headed in the direction of the old, destroyed keep that very morning. Theon found the ironwood doors open. He sighed and went back to fetch a torch.

The way down seemed not as long as the last time he had taken it, every step twice as trying with Lady Barbrey at his side, watching his every move. Theon remembered her words and wondered, what would she do now that Lord Stark’s bones had been laid to rest? He should tell Snow what she had said to him the day she came to the crypt and confessed to the grudge she was still nursing against the Starks.

Finally Theon reached the uppermost level of the crypts. The faint light at the far end of the hallway indicated Snow’s presence. Theon went there silently, like one of the famous ghosts of Winterfell. That thought made him watch out for the missing swords. They had been replaced, he realized, the gleam of the metal still unblemished by rust and mold. 

Snow was kneeling on the cold stone floor. Not before Lord Eddard’s tomb, though, but before Lady Lyanna’s. 

_The wrong one, Snow. Your father had no teats, last time I saw him._ Theon had to bite his tongue to suppress the words. 

Snow, finally sensing his presence, looked up. He had obviously been deep in thought, or else he would have noticed Theon long ago. He was usually alert to the point of nervousness – he always had been, and that particular trait had become even stronger. 

“What are you doing here?” Snow asked.

Theon squinted. Snow looked worn-out and pale, and the emotions on his face that did not seem to fit the moment. He looked miserable with grief, devastated, as if he had just found out about his father’s death, not known about it for more than two years.

“Good gods,” Theon said. “What happened?”

Snow ran a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

“Late afternoon. Have you been here the whole time?”

Snow did not answer the question. He got to his feet. The stiffness of his movements was a telltale sign that he had indeed knelt there for a long while. 

“What do you want, Theon?”

Nobody ever said his given name in this casual fashion anymore. From Asha, it always held a note of exasperation, or maybe worry. From the king, it was edged with sarcasm, if he used his name at all. Since his promise not to call him turncloak or Greyjoy anymore, Stannis mostly refused to address him altogether. 

“The king sends me. Your presence is required.”

“The king,” Snow said in an unusually caustic tone, “Can wait, for once.”

Theon raised his eyebrows. “You are welcome to tell him that yourself.”

When Snow, once again, did not reply, Theon shook his head. “What is wrong with you?” 

Snow merely shrugged. 

Theon’s eyes fell on the floor behind him. “You brought _flowers_?”

Something flickered in Snow’s face, but he still did not say anything.

“Where did you even find those? It is the middle of winter.”

“The godswood,” Snow said, quietly. “Some are still growing beside the pools.”

“But _why?_ ” Theon said. “I hate to break it to you, Snow, but Lady Lyanna has been dead for eight-and-ten years. Your father’s tomb is _right there_.” He pointed with his thumb.

“Seven-and-ten and a half,” Jon said. His voice sounded very strange. The expression on his face looked like he was attempting to smile, but failing greatly, missing by a league.

“What?”

“She has been dead for seven-and-ten years and a half,” Snow corrected Theon’s casual remark.

Theon shook his head in dismay. “Have you eaten something rotten?”

“Theon...” 

There it was again, his name, and again it gave him a jolt. Yet it was said differently this time, holding an appeal.

“What?” Theon replied. Snow’s strange behavior started to worry him.

“Promise me. Promise me not to tell anyone.”

“What is wrong with you? What are you, twelve? And have you forgotten who I am? People refuse to tell me the weather these days.”

“Promise me,” Snow demanded, a fierce and lost look in his eyes, and Theon, in utter bewilderment, stared at him. 

“Are you planning treason? Because I have truly had enough of that.”

“What? No. No. Just... _Theon_.”

“Fine, yes. For what it is worth, I promise.”

Snow turned to look at the statue of Lyanna Stark. “She is my mother.”

Theon gaped. 

“My _mother_ ,” Snow repeated, and there was wonderment and dread in his voice.

Theon could emphasize. “How did it come to that? I thought only Targaryens fucked their sisters. And Lannisters, lately.” _And maybe I got close once, but that is better left unexplored._

Snow flinched at his crude words. “No! Gods, Greyjoy, do you ever listen to yourself?” 

Theon shrugged. “Not if I can avoid it. Where does your epiphany come from? Seems like a delusion to me. I would be the first to accede that your father was no saint, but sleeping with his sister? Doesn’t seem like a thing he would do.”

Snow made an aborted movement, as if to hinder Theon from saying those things about Lord Eddard, but instead he only shook his head and took a deep breath. “Eddard Stark is not my father.” 

“What?” 

But Snow only looked at the statue and did not reply. 

“Fine,” Theon said. “Lord Eddard is not your father, but Lady Lyanna is your mother. Who _is_ your father, then?”

Snow shot him a glance, one that clearly said, _think_. 

Theon did. It took a while to draw a logical conclusion, the implication was just too unbelievable. 

“Oh, no. You cannot be serious,” Theon finally said. It was the only explanation, the only thing that made sense, but still... “People would have known. There is no way...”

Slowly the pieces came together. Lady Lyanna. Robert Baratheon. Prince Rhaegar, and the Battle of the Trident. 

“She had you... in the South? In the Tower of Joy?”

Snow nodded, eyes downcast, and blinked rapidly.

“Well. Yes. That explains a lot.”

Theon recalled the way Lord Eddard had looked at Snow sometimes, the pride on his face edged with sorrow, and the way he had put a stop to any gossip concerning Snow’s mother, and how he had always insisted Snow was treated exactly like his trueborn children, that he sat with them at the high table, except for the one time Robert Baratheon came to visit... Theon had taken it as a concession to the queen’s presence, but now...

It was too much to take. Theon sat down on the ground heavily. “That would make you...”

“No,” Jon interrupted him. “No. It makes me no one. I am still a Snow, nothing else.”

“That is a steaming heap of horse dung,” Theon said. “With things how they are? It makes you an aspirant for the _Iron Throne._ ”

“No. Never.” 

“It makes no change for your claim of Winterfell, in case you were worried. Even with Robb’s letter... half-brother or cousin, the intent was stated clearly.”

“I don’t want Winterfell. It belongs to Bran... or Rickon.”

“If they are still alive,” Theon whispered, and there it was again, the part he had almost forgotten, the guilt that settled deep in his guts. He scolded himself, now was not the time to add this concern to the weight already resting on Snow’s shoulders. 

But Snow did not comment on it. He looked at Lady Lyanna’s statue as if it held the secrets of the past. Maybe, for him, it did. 

“My whole life I wondered,” Snow said in a qiet, miserable voice. “I was sure only of one thing: that Lord Eddard was my father, if nothing else. I was a bastard, yes, but my father’s son. Now... everything I believed was a lie.”

“No it wasn’t,” Theon said. “Not the way you think. He loved you. That is no less real because you were his sister’s son instead of his own. It never made a difference to him, why should it make a difference to you? Robb cared for you, too, and Bran and Arya. They would not have loved you less as their cousin.”

“Lady Stark hated me.”

Theon sighed. “Snow. They were basically strangers when they got married. How could he have told her?”

“I know that.”

“And later, when everyone already believed the lie... that Lady Stark did not like you very much only made it more plausible. Wives are supposed to hate their husband’s bastardborn, not coddle them. Just imagine if she would have started to treat you differently all of a sudden... that would have raised suspicion at best, rumor at worst.”

“He hurt her, too,” Jon said. “My fa... Lord Eddard knew that he hurt her, and still...”

“As a price for your life? He likely called it cheap.” Theon laughed mirthlessly. “As I said, he was no saint.”

“I hated him for it,” Jon whispered. “For making me a bastard. He had dishonored himself and Lady Catelyn... and my mother, too. Or so I thought.”

Theon sighed. “You green landers are so hypocritical. Men stray and father bastards, it happens all the time. The ironborn have more common sense, if you ask me. Our rock wives do not share the delusion, they know what happens when their husbands are at sea. At war.”

“It is shameful.”

“Someone should have told Robert Baratheon that. He sired more than his fair share of bastard children, if rumors can be believed.”

Snow’s hands clenched into fists. “Then no one should complain about his wife doing the same.”

Theon raised his eyebrows. “Are you a dornishman now, praying that men and women are equal and should be treated as such? You should talk to Asha. She’d gladly share your insight, I bet.”

“Would _you_ treat your wife like that?” Snow asked, and added, with a vicious bite to his words. “On second thought, do not answer that question. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“My wife?” Theon hardly knew what to say to that. The idea of a marriage had never truly occurred to him, not before the war and certainly not since the Dreadfort. The mere thought of bedding a woman had him fighting the urge to retch. To use them as he once had, thoughtlessly, as a way to prove himself as a man and take his pleasure from them... That was not who he was anymore, and more and more he thought he was done with women altogether.

“A death sentence is looming over my head, Snow. I am hardly suited for a husband. If I am lucky, the king will let me take the black once he is done with me. Also, in your equation, I am on the wrong side, do you realize that? Although at least Stannis cannot get me with child.” 

Snow blushed at that, but seemed determined not to let go of his anger. “Can you take nothing serious?”

“Would you rather I cried and prayed every day under the heart tree?”

“I don’t know why I told you, of all people, ” Snow said with disgust.

The answer to that was obvious. “Because I am the only one left,” Theon said. “The only one who knows what it was like to grow up in Winterfell and feel like you did not belong there.” 

It was more than he had wanted to say, more than he was comfortable disclosing. Theon bit his lip and stared at the floor. “At least you knew your father loved you,” he said, and that, too, came out without permission.

Snow said nothing. But he sat down on the floor, across from Theon, at the feet of his mother’s statue. _His mother._ It would take time to sink in, and if it felt that strange for Theon, how did it have to be for Jon? 

“I wish I had known her. They say she was beautiful, and brave.”

 _Like her son._

Theon had not seen his mother since the day he had been taken from Pyke after his father’s rebellion. He wished he had gone to see her when he returned to Pyke, but he could not be bothered back then. What a fool he had been. _Asha told me to go, so of course I did not._

“They always say nice things about the dead, Snow,” Theon said. 

“I know.” The anger was gone, replaced by weariness. “Was is truly so hard on you, being my fath... Lord Eddard’s ward?”

The question contained no challenge, only curiosity, so Theon could, for once, answer honestly. “For the first years, every time a raven came from the South, I was afraid it would carry news of a war, that my father had risen against the king. Every time Lord Eddard carried out a death sentence with Ice, I could see my own head at the block. It got better with time. My life was not a bad one at all. I liked Robb, and then there was hunting, and wine, and girls...”

“Were there ever... men?”

Where had that come from? Theon lifted his head to look at Jon, with one raised eyebrow. “Curious, are we?”

“I only wondered.”

“The answer is no.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, I guess I missed out on some things,” Theon said off-handedly. “Funny thing, life catches up with you, sooner or later. What about you, Snow? So many lonely _brothers_ in the Night’s Watch...” 

He only meant to tease. Years ago, even that little taunt would have riled Jon, but now he only got a tired smile. 

“No. Nothing like that.”

A thought came to Theon’s mind that made him snigger. The opportunity was too good to waste – he simply had to share the jest. “And then the king appeared on a white horse with a fiery sword and captured the Lord Commander’s heart.”

The full absurdity hit him as he said the words aloud, and he started to laugh.

Jon stared at him. His disbelieving expression caused Theon to break into another fit of giggles. “You should see your face.”

“That... that might be the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” Jon said weakly. Then he, too, started to laugh. “I cannot believe you said that.”

Theon squeaked with laughter. “Admit it, Snow, you are saving yourself for your king – Stannis Baratheon, knight in shining armor...”

“Stop that!” Jon exclaimed, aiming for a stern tone and failing, his mouth twitching while he tried to look indignant and serious. That did nothing to lessen the hilarity. Theon could hardly catch his breath. His chest and stomach were already aching with the strain. 

“With eyes of blue and hair of black...” he sang, before he needed to breathe and cackled again.

“Greyjoy...” Snow guffawed, but seeing as hat was all he managed, Theon felt the reprimand lacked conviction.

“And a heart of gold and a priestess of red...”

“Oh, enough!” Jon lunged at him. The impact sent Theon toppling over backwards, and Jon’s sudden weight on him took his breath away. 

“Shut up, Theon,” Jon whispered, laughter in his eyes. 

Theon smirked back. “You know how to make me.”

Jon’s mouth on his was a revelation of its own, firm and determined, lips still curved in a smile. His breath was stale, stale like the air in the crypts, but Theon did not mind.

He struggled, half-heartedly, to flip them over, rather to get on top than to throw Jon off, and when he finally succeeded, he did not break the kiss, but started, clumsily, to unlace Jon’s shirt.

They rolled over the cold, dirt and dust covered floor, and their clothes came off one by one, until they were skin on skin from the waist up, and their breeches partly undone

Jon’s cock was hard against his thigh, smearing him with sticky wetness, and Theon was hard as well. He could not think beyond that. Between kisses and curses, it was more important to get closer to Jon, explore his smooth, soft skin with greedily questing hands. 

“Yes,” he whispered against Jon’s collarbone. “Come on, Snow.” 

Jon responded with equal fervor. The laughter was gone, replaced by urgency. Theon wanted to mark Jon, the same way the king marked him. The imprint of his fingernails, red crescents on Jon’s back; a mark on his pale throat. Snow did not object – was, in fact, too busy laying his own claim on Theon, wet, open-mouthed sucking kisses on his arms and chest.

A rhythm built between them at last with Theon on top, thrusting against Jon in a slow, inexorable pace. It felt too good. Theon closed his eyes, drew a shuddering breath. “Snow,” he whispered, lips against hot skin. “Please.” 

He did not know for what he was begging, only that he needed more, so much more. Jon’s hands found his buttocks under the rough linen of his breeches and smallclothes, squeezing roughly and pulling him closer, and Theon gasped, sobbed when it caused his cock to slide against Jon’s thigh. The mindless need left no room for thought, only for instinct, and he could not even tell what he wanted. Rutting against each other like this, like inexperienced boys, felt better than anything.

Jon’s hand on his cock – searching, shy and careful – came as such a shock that Theon cried out, half encouragement, half fear. Then the touch got surer, got just right, pressure and slow, coaxing pulls, and Theon held on to Jon, fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders, and he was shaking badly. When he came it felt like a fall from great heights, a moment of suspense, caught between euphoria and terror, the pleasure so intense it was almost to much to bear. He shook and gasped, spilled his seed over Jon’s hand. It left him weak, wrecked, and completely undone. He barely noticed that Jon let go of him to tend to his own need, finding release after only a couple of strokes.

Theon collapsed on top of him. The shaking slowly subsided, and a great lethargy spread through his limbs. He could have fallen asleep right there, on top of Jon in the cold stony crypt, with only their shared warmth to keep him from freezing. He was unwilling to move, his relief and exhaustion so great it seemed to consume him. _Thank Gods. I thought Ramsay took that away from me forever, but I am free of him now, finally. I am not afraid of him anymore._

Jon said something under him, bucking a little to make him move, but Theon only sighed and let his head rest on his shoulder. Jon’s right arm slid around his shoulders so he could gain leverage to roll them both to their sides. Theon hissed as his back hit the cold floor and complained with groan. 

Jon sat up. “Theon. We need to get back.”

Theon made an affirmative noise, but was still felt too drained to lift his head, let alone to stand.

“The torches will not last much longer. Come on.”

When he made himself get up at last, Theon’s movements were sluggish.

Jon looked at him with a smirk, the look of his eyes under thick lashes almost sly. “Did I wear you out?”

Theon almost laughed. “Be as smug as you like. It was good, I won’t deny that.”

“I am sure it would have been even better if you had at least cared enough to reciprocate,” Jon said dryly, but there was no malice in his voice. A hint of smugness, maybe, but Theon could admit that he had earned it. Not that he would say so.

“I apologize, my lord,” he said. “Although it seemed to me that you did not mind too much, seeing as you were doing quite well on your own, and did not pause to ask.”

That made Jon blush, and the glance he threw at Theon spoke of embarrassment as well as annoyance.

Theon shrugged. “However, I only hope that the ghosts of your deceased ancestors did not watch us.”

Jon only now seemed to recall their surroundings. With renewed, open regret and misery he looked at his mother’s stone figure. “I almost wish they did,” he murmured. “That she could see me...”

His gaze locked on the flowers he had lain down at her feet, tiny little speckles of white.

Theon came up behind him. He wanted to put a hand on Jon’s shoulders, but something held him back, and he let his hand drop. “She should wear them as a crown. Do you remember the tale? Rhaegar crowned her queen of love and beauty at the tournament of Harrenhal...”

Jon pointed to her head, where a garland of flowers had been chiseled out of the stone. “Blue winter roses. I could not find any. They used to grow in the glass gardens, but...”

“You will grow them there again. One day.”

Jon sighed. “One day,” he agreed.

They left the crypts. As they had reached the stairs and were taking the first steps upward, Jon asked wearily, “What did the king want?”

Theon had almost forgotten about the world outside. For a moment it ceased to exist, he had felt as if they were still boys, together at Winterfell. Although they had certainly never been as close before. 

It took a minute for Theon to assemble his thoughts. “A raven came from White Harbor. Ships from Dragonstone have arrived, with tons of dragonglass and survivors from the siege.”

“His Grace must be pleased.”

“He is.”

Jon gestured at himself. “I need to make myself presentable before I visit him.” 

Theon conceded the point. The past hours had certainly taken their toll on his appearance. A fine layer of dirt, cobwebs and dust covered his clothes. 

“Can you tell him...” Jon interrupted himself, looking at Theon. “Or not.”

“What?”

Instead of answering, Jon briefly touched Theon’s cheek. His fingers came away sooty, smeared with a mixture of dirt and sweat. 

“You better take care of that as well. Come, we can wash up in my room.”

The offer was kind enough. 

“Better make sure no one sees us,” Theon said. 

Jon merely shrugged. “Who would know the secret paths around the castle better than we?”

~~~~~

They made it to the great keep without being seen by anyone. The guards at the base of the tower only bowed to Snow and said nothing about their appearance. 

They bypassed the king’s solar, hastily climbing the stairs almost to the top of the tower to Jon’s chambers. They were the same ones he had slept in since he was little. Only two small rooms, as opposed to Robb’s suite, where Stannis nowadays resided. The tower had its own hierarchy: the lord’s solar was located on the first floor, the lord’s suite on the second; then came the women’s bower, followed by the lady’s suite that had once belonged to Lady Catelyn. Robb’s rooms came next, spanning a whole floor. On the higher levels the space was divided in two sets of rooms – the younger siblings and whoever else counted for family were granted less space for themselves. Jon and Theon had once shared the same level of the tower: the rooms next to Jon’s were actually Theon’s old chambers, but Snow had started using them as his own solar. 

“You will have to move in the lords’ chambers eventually,” Theon said.

“Not yet,” Jon said.

“Face the truth. Even if your brothers...” Only belatedly, Theon remembered, and corrected himself, “If Bran and Rickon come back, it will be years until they are old enough to rule on their own. Even Robb was too young, and he, at least, was of age.”

“I am no older than Robb.”

“Yes, but you were always the more considerate one. You thought while you acted. Robb only did it after.”

Jon gave him an almost-smile. “A wise man would have thought _before_.”

“Yes, well. Wisdom comes with age and experience, it is what distinguishes men from boys. That does not mean all elders are wise, though.” Balon Greyjoy had never been wise. Age only served to make him more vicious.

“Spoken like a maester.”

Theon grimaced. “I have my moments.”

Inside Jon’s room, they cleaned themselves, brushing off their clothes, eliminating the traces of their encounter in the crypts. Jon even pulled a comb through his hair. 

Theon snorted at that. “No, really? Snow, I promise you, the King will like you just how you are. You need not weave red ribbons in your hair.”

Jon glared. “Be quit.”

Opening his mouth for another retort, a sudden thought made Theon pause in his tracks. “Snow. You do realize you have to tell the king, don’t you?”

“Tell him what? That we...” Snow broke off.

Theon rolled his eyes. “No. Not that.”

Jon stared at him and paled as he understood. “No.”

“You know you have to,” Theon said. “If he finds out through another source...”

“He will not. Reed promised...”

“Reed? So that is how you found out, you never said. Still. You cannot keep that from him, Snow. It is important, he needs to know.”

“Why?”

“Because there is nothing, nothing Stannis detests as much as lies and deception. And – let us face the truth – you are not the man who can conceal a revelation like this one and not feel guilty about it. He will know, Snow, if not the whole truth, than at least that you hold something back. You do not want that.”

Jon’s eyes were wide, almost fearful. 

“Have you still not understood? Snow, all teasing aside, Stannis and you, it is like a storm going to happen no matter what. You can try to outsail it as much as you want, it will still come for you, and in the end, you have to abide it and hope not to drown. You want him, and he wants you, too. Although he would never presume and take the first step, he will take what you offer. And if he does, you will not want to keep this secret. You won’t.”

“If I tell him – he will think that I wish to rise above my station. That I...”

“Then you need to make it clear. Lay it on the table, _all of it_ , and let him decide. That is the only way.”

Snow opened his mouth and closed it. “You mean...”

“Go to him,” Theon urged him, his voice softer than he intended. “ _Go._ ”  
~~~~~

The door closed behind Jon, and Theon was left behind. 

_What have I just done?_

He had sent Jon to the king, knowing what would happen. 

_This is utter madness. I must be truly as insane as everybody else thinks._

Theon touched the place where Jon’s lips had left their mark, already faded, nothin more than a memory. 

Stannis and Jon. They would argue. Jon would confess, everything, and he would be bold enough to do what Stannis could not. And then... Stannis would touch him. He would kiss him with the hunger like a living, breathing thing between them. 

Jon in the king’s bed, Stannis on top of him, blue eyes alight with passion.

Jon, yielding, giving himself over, a gift that could not be compared with what Theon had to offer. Given freely, without the taint of treason. Or the ugly stain of the Dreadfort.

What would Jon sound like when the king pushed inside? Would he yearn for it, moan for Stannis as he had for Theon?

 _That was different. A way to relieve tension, nothing more._ The answer to loss and grief, a way to cope. Temporary madness. Jon wanted Stannis, not Theon.

Why did Theon care at all? 

It was only prudent to think about it, he told himself. To prepare, if nothing else. If Jon shared the king’s bed from now on, Theon would be sent to the Wall soon. How long he would survive there was a question he had not raised with the king, or with anyone at all. 

He was better off now than he had been. Not so thin any more. If they left him alone, he might be able to survive. Chances of the latter were slim, though. 

But Theon’s thoughts refused to stay there. 

_Will Stannis think of me when he kisses Jon? Only with disgust, I bet._ There was no area of comparison where Snow would not come off better. 

_Now you are only pathetic. You knew what would happen, and sent him there. It was your own fault. Don’t complain._

_I want it to be me._

In whose place? 

_Both._


	24. Jon VII

The king’s mood was dark. Stannis was pacing the room. ”Where have you been?” he asked as Jon took a knee, not interrupting his restless stride. 

“I apologize, Your Grace. There were unforeseeable... complications.”

“Do elaborate.”

Jon took a deep breath. “Your Grace – may I speak to you privately?”

Stannis furrowed his brow. “You already do.” 

Jon was usually permitted without any guards present, but Devan was currently busy stoking the fire. While Jon tended to think the boy, as the son of the king’s hand, was trustworthy, what he had to tell the king was still something nobody else could be permitted to hear. 

Jon did not repeat his question, only held the king’s gaze for what seemed like an eternity. Stannis knew better than to ask for his reasons; the only question was whether he trusted Jon enough to oblige him.

“Very well,” the king said grudgingly. “Devan, lemon water; then leave.”

The squire obeyed. As the door closed behind the boy, Stannis came to a halt in front of the windows. “Do not waste my time, Lord Snow. ” 

The late afternoon sun made it impossible to see his face. His head, bald apart from a fringe of black at his temples, shone like a beacon. 

“I have recently – only this morning – learned something that I need to tell you, Your Grace.”

“I do not care for petty secrets the like my daughter might whisper in her fool’s ear at a feast.”

Jon knew better than to roll his eyes, although he certainly felt the urge. Why did Stannis always have to make things so difficult? If Stannis did not know by now that Jon would not bother him without a good reason, though, it was pointless to say so. 

Jon kept his voice level. “Then I take it that Your Grace does not care to hear that I am not Eddard Starks son.”

He felt a stab of satisfaction when the king whirled around to face him, all traces of annoyance or boredom gone from his face. Stannis’ blue eyes bore into Jon’s. 

“What kind of folly is that?” 

“As I said, Your Grace,” Jon said. “I am not...”

“I heard you,” the king interrupted him. “Your face says differently.”

“I am of the blood of the Starks,” Jon said. “But not...”

The king furrowed his brow. “Whose bastard _are_ you? Lord Brandon’s? Old Lord Rickard’s?”

“Lady Lyanna’s,” Jon said. 

Stannis’ eyes narrowed down to slits. 

In the silence that followed, Jon almost regretted that he had ever said a word. Belatedly he wondered if Stannis shared Robert’s hatred of the Targaryens. Would Lightbringer take his head off in a moment? 

But Stannis only stared at him, utterly focused. If Jon had not come to know the king’s face quite well, he would have called the expression one of mild curiosity. As it was, he recognized bewilderment, speculation, followed by understanding, until Stannis’ features went almost blank.

“Who told you?” was all Stannis asked.

“Howland Reed.”

Stannis’ right hand twitched almost imperceptibly. Jon saw the gesture for what it was, the instinctive reach for a sword at his side. 

“He told me this morning,” Jon said. “He would have kept his silence, forever, I assume, if my... if Lord Stark had not been killed before he could tell me.”

The king’s hand slowly unclenched. “Who else knows of this?”

“Lord Reed. A woman in Starfall who was my nurse, who was said to be my mother as a ruse. Theon Greyjoy. And now Your Grace.”

“You trusted the turncloak with this?” Stannis’ exclamation was like a bark. “Is that what you call discretion?”

“He will not tell.” Jon was sure of that.

“What use is your request to tell me in confidence if the world will know by nightfall?”

“Do you truly trust Theon so little, Your Grace?”

“With a secret like this?” Stannis grinded his teeth.

Oddly hurt on Theon’s behalf, Jon spoke before he could think better of it. “He shares your bed. You trust him with your _life_.” 

The king’s glare seemed to indicate murderous intent. For a moment Jon believed Stannis might try to strangle him. One day, he knew, he would take it too far, and the king would send for his sword.

But Stannis only snorted, and started to pace the room again with forceful, thudding steps that reminded Jon of an irritated bull. Jon did not dare interrupt him.

The king halted to stare at Jon. “It appears the Starks’ blood is stronger than the dragon’s. I see nothing of the Targaryens in you.”

“No, Your Grace.”

“It is the same with the Baratheons,” Stannis continued absent-mindly. “My grandmother was a Targaryen, but none of us have inherited their traits. It is the reason I finally realized that my brother’s children were not his own; no Baratheon was ever born with liight hair.”

Stannis paced, then paused again. “Why did you tell me this?” he asked. “What are you trying to gain? If you think for one moment to lay claim to the Iron Throne..”

“No, Your Grace. You are the rightful king.”

Stannis snorted. “What kind of favor do you expect from me?”

“Nothing, Your Grace,” Jon said tiredly. 

“Nonsense. I know how things work, and although you have proven honest so far, once could even say, humble, surely that will change now that you can call yourself a prince’s son.”

“No!” Jon had never come so close to yelling at the king. He nearly despaired. How could the king be so obtuse? “I seek nothing. Do I need to remind Your Grace that it is by your decree that I rule Winterfell? I have no wish for power for its own sake. I will gladly step down once a rightful heir is found, as I have told you again and again. I have pledged to you, Your Grace, and will not renege on that. The only reason I told you is because I did not want to keep it a secret from _my king_.”

“Because you have no means to prove your claim, I assume. Do you wish to be named as my heir? Not unless you agree to marry my daughter.”

“For the gods’ sake, will you listen to me?” Jon ground out, losing his composure. “I only learned the truth myself this very morning. I had not even time to think about what it all means, or what to think of it. I did not tell you to gain anything or earn your favor, I am not striving to be more than I already am. What does it take to convince Your Grace that I am your sworn man, not your foe?”

“If I thought you were my foe I would defeat you. Even so – am I to believe you follow me because of devotion, and nothing else? I am no fool. Those who fight for me do it because they expect things in return: to award them lands and titles; fame and fortune; favorable matches for their daughters, knighthood and glory for their sons. They would have followed Robert to the end of the world and beyond; they follow me only as long as they fear my power or see a reward in their future. Do you think I am not aware of that?”

“I only wish to serve my king and the people of the North.”

Stannis laughed, and it was a bitter sound. “And what would I have done to earn your allegiance? Do not tell me it is because duty demands it. That is only a pretext, and one I wish not to hear from you. I am the rightful king, and the lords owe me obedience, yes; yet even I am not as deluded to think that duty is what keeps a man loyal.“ 

Jon wondered numbly whether Stannis had always been so cynical, or if years he spent standing ins his brothers’ shadow had made him so. The king’s words were harsh and brutally honest, and hinting at old grievances and deeply rooted insecurities. 

It hurt to know that Stannis did not believe anyone capable of following him out of conviction. How could Jon expect a man to trust him who had been so thoroughly disillusioned? Yet he wanted Stannis’ trust, desperately, and the less Stannis seemed to inclined to give it to him, the more urgent the need to earn it became. 

The lack of an answer made Stannis laugh a second time. “I offered you more than anyone else. I offered you my daughter’s hand in marriage. Are you throwing it back in my face?”

“You would not have considered that just yesterday, Your Grace.You only saw me as a bastard then.”

“A bastard whose mother, as far as I knew, might have been a camp follower or a dimwitted peasant girl. I considered it, even then, but I knew I would need the option of an alliance to Dorne or the Reach. Now, though...”

“I am still a bastard.”

“We share the same blood. You are a Stark, but you are also a Targaryen, Prince Rhaegar’s son.”

“But I am the same man as before. Nothing has changed.” 

“If you had not wanted for me to acknowledge it, you should not have told me.”

Jon bit his lip. “I cannot oblige you, Your Grace. It is a great honor. But how could I marry Shireen if it is not her I want?” 

Until now, he had not admitted as much, not even to himself. He had not even known until now, despite Theon’s taunting, what his longing to prove his worth to Stannis and earn his respect truly meant. But the thought of being wed to Stannis’ daughter – even if it was a prospect for the longer term, since Shireen was still a child and would not be eligible for a marriage liaison for the next few years – felt so wrong that it made Jon almost nauseous. 

“If you have set your mind on another girl...”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Then what...”

Jon’s heart beat furiously in his chest. He repeated, slowly, “It is not _her_ I want.” 

It was more than a gamble, it was a truly frightening risk he took, born from despair. But how else could he make the king understand, if Stannis was so determined to twist and turn every word until it appeared as an insult? 

Stannis stared at him. “Does you boldness know no boundaries?” he asked, disconcertingly devoid of any emotion Jon could read. “I always wondered where your recklessness came from, and blamed the Starks. Yet it might as well be your true father’s legacy.” 

The king smiled thinly, a mere distortion of his mouth. “Be that as it may. You better leave now, before I decide to take your words seriously.”

The rejection felt like a punch to the gut. Theon had been wrong, apparently. Jon wondered how he could even have considered the possibility the king wanted him. “I apologize, Your Grace. What I said was presumptuous and unforgivable.”

“Presumptuous?” Stannis snarled. “I would call it inconsiderate. I acknowledge the courage it took for you to approach me in this fashion. If it is any consolation, of all those who attempted to seduce me over the years, your offer was certainly the most tempting. But I assume you know that. Now leave, before I decide to take what you offer, and believe me, Lord Stark, you would rue the day.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon said. “If you do not want me -”

“Oh, but I do, Lord Stark. As you must know.”

“Then why...”

Stannis moved so fast that Jon had barely time to register what happened, before his upper arms were seized in an iron grip, and he was shoved against the table so that he almost fell backwards. Only the king’s hands kept him upright. Without thinking, Jon clutched Stannis’ forearms for balance. 

Furious blue eyes pierced him. “I have truly reached the end of my patience,” Stannis hissed through his teeth. “It is enough; I have granted you considerable liberties where others would have paid for the same insolence dearly. Had anybody else dared to arouse my anger only once the way you do it over and over again, they would have faced my wrath. I take not kindly to being humiliated. One more word, one more attempt to play me false, and you will learn what it means if I regard you an enemy.”

Shocked to his core, Jon shook his head in denial. “I do not play you false, Your Grace, I never have.”

“Am I to believe that you are consumed by desire for me? Do you deem me so easily deceived?” Stannis shook him, his hands like vices around Jon’s arms, and although he might have been able to free himself, Jon made no such attempt. 

“No deception,” he succeeded saying with a dry throat. 

“Prove it, then,” the king said, and before Jon could do or say anything else, he kissed him.

It was different, different from Theon, and different from Ygritte, and from anything Jon could have imagined. The king did not stop to gauge Jon’s reaction or ask for permission. The one moment he kissed Jon like he wanted to devour him, the next he pushed Jon back on the table, taking hold of his hips and lifting them. Jon’s back hit the table, and his legs were pushed up as Stannis pressed between them. Jon’s backside was in the air, and Stannis’ hands squeezed his buttocks, pulling him toward the king’s cock. Through layers of cloth and leather Jon could feel the hardness, and groaned involuntarily, shocked. 

“Shall I take you like this?” Stannis said, bent over him, staring down at him with burning eyes. “Is that what you want?” The king’s voice was so harsh and cold it reminded Jon of the ground high up at the Wall, scraping ice and gravel. 

Jon stared up at Stannis and knew without a doubt he would not tell him no. He nodded and closed his eyes. “I would prefer a bed. And less clothes.”

His manhood rose without his consent, unruly thing that is was, as if he had not found release just an hour ago or less. The thought confused and aroused him in almost equal measure – he had been with Theon and liked it, and now he was hard again and yearning for the Stannis’ touch.

“Please,” Jon whispered, and knew his face was flushed. His breaths went shallow. “Your Grace...” he bit his lip, unsure. He had wanted to say something else. 

Stannis growled. “Say my name,” he said. “Say my name, and look at me.”

Jon licked his lips and opened his eyes. “Stannis,” he whispered and saw the king’s eyes darken. 

For a moment, it seemed like Stannis would do what he had heralded. They stared at each other for the longest time, and then the king shook his head. 

“Not like this,” he said roughly. 

He let go of Jon’s hips and took a step back. Torn between relief and disappointment, Jon watched him, and saw him take the knife from his belt. Jon had hardly time to make sense of that before the blade cut through the laces that held his breeches in places. 

It seemed so at odds with his former words that Jon was afraid he had misunderstood. What did the king want? 

The knife hit the ground. “Up,” Stannis urged him, and Jon obeyed, lifting his hips so the king could pull down his breeches. His smallclothes were torn away. Cool air hit his erect cock and made Jon hiss, both with relief and the almost maddening feeling of the draft on the heated, sensitive skin. 

Before he could do anything, let alone _think_ , the king went to his knees and took him in his mouth.

Jon screamed, and his hands scrambled for purchase. His eyes closed as the wet heat engulfed him, and he lost himself in pleasure. He could not believe this was happening. Stannis sucked, and there was a scraping of teeth as well, and Jon bucked his hips, gasping. Large hands clutched his hips and held him down with bruising strength. The combination of both – Stannis’ hold on him, fingers cold and callused on Jon’s overheated skin, and his mouth, tight and burning hot – was maddening, and Jon moaned. 

Ygritte had done this to him, once or twice. Her lips had been soft and coaxing, licks and kisses making it a sweet torture. This was nothing like that. The sensation became almost too much to bear: pressure and heat, a strong suction that felt like Stannis was _taking_ from him, demanding his release, an imperative to spill his seed the way the king wanted. 

Jon held on to the edge of the table while Stannis drew moans and gasps from him, until he tensed and cried out, the force of his climax taking him by surprise. He could not hold back and spent, helplessly, in the king’s mouth. 

_Oh, gods._ Jon’s mouth opened and closed, and no words came out. He trembled through the aftershocks of his climax, opened his eyes and caught the king looking at him, triumphant and fierce.

Jon’s gut clenched. All of a sudden he wanted to be in Stannis’ bed, laid out like this but naked, the king on top of him and all over him.

As if Stannis’ had read his mind, his expression changed, the satisfaction fading letting hunger show. Stannis did not act on it, though. He silently offered Jon a hand and pulled him up from the table.

Jon had failed to realize his knees were too weak to keep him upright. He ended up stumbling and was caught by Stannis, who steadied him with a hand to his shoulder. Jon’s head fell forward to rest on the king’s forearm as he drew another shaky breath. 

Stannis’ left hand came up to comb through his hair. After a moment, he used the leverage to tilt Jon’s head up. 

“I don’t need a collar after all, do I?” Stannis asked. “Sufficiently tame, for the moment.” He smiled. For once, it was real, amusement edged with satisfaction and, at the same time, weirdly gentle. 

Jon knew he was blushing, but to deny the king’s words would have meant a lie. 

“All that glorious defiance, gone right out of you,” Stannis muttered. “Seems like a small price to pay.” 

Inexplicably that smile came again. “What am I to do with you now, my wolf?” He kept stroking Jon’s hair. 

Jon made an odd sound, a mixture of a laugh and a moan. “Take me to bed.” His hands came up to grasp the king’s tunic. 

Stannis’ hand tightened on his shoulder. Close as they stood, Jon could feel how his words affected the king from the way he caught his breath and exhaled deeply after a moment. 

“Another time,” Stannis said. “Not yet.” 

He let go of Jon, gradually, and stepped back. He went to drink from his goblet, his back to Jon. Glad his legs decided to carry his weight again, Jon quickly dressed, tying his smallclothes and breeches as effectively as he could. 

He had only just succeeded when Stannis returned to him, offering him water. Jon took the goblet from his hand. It was the king’s own cup – whether on purpose or as a mistake, Jon could not say, but the possible implication made him hesitate for a second before he accepted it and emptied it in one go. _I doubt he intended it to be a gesture of courtly love._

Meanwhile Stannis bent over the table to restore the array of letters and maps that had been destroyed by their tumble. 

He turned again to look at Jon. “Eddard Stark did right to keep your true identity a secret,” he said. “Robert’s hatred of the Targaryens knew no limits. My brother loved and resented in equal measures, and both beyond reason. The same way he idolized Lyanna Stark, he made Prince Rhaegar into a monster the man was, in truth, not.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. _Had_ I known him, it is quite possible I would not have followed Robert in his rebellion so readily. What is done is done, though. The Targaryens are an exiled house, the Iron Throne belongs to the Baratheons. There is no turning the tides.”

“No, Your Grace.” _Stannis,_ Jon thought with wonder. “I told you that I have no intention to turn against you, in any way. I’d rather it stayed a secret, shared only between us.”

“And Reed and Greyjoy, and God knows who else,” Stannis groused. “Still, I am inclined to believe you.” 

“Reed kept the knowledge to himself for more than seventeen years,” Jon returned. It was his sense of justice that made him add, “And it was Theon who advised me to speak to you at once, so you would know and not feel betrayed if you found out through any other source. He told me to come here. If not for him...”

Stannis seemed irritated. “Greyjoy would do better to keep his advice to himself.”

“He meant well.”

“That would be a first. We will keep silent about this. Should the necessity arise to reveal your heritage, though, I will not hesitate to use the knowledge to my advantage, is that clear, Lord Snow?”

 _I liked it better when you called me your wolf,_ Jon thought. ”Aye, Your Grace.”

“Good. Tell me, what am I to do with two shiploads of dragonglass?”“

~~~~~

“Where have you been?” Jon scolded Ghost. The direwolf sneezed once, sniffing at a heap of garbage in the yard. He did not pay Jon any attention.

Eddard, who walked behind him, coughed, a significant reminder that Jon’s guards had tried to find him for the better part of the day and were still cross with him. 

“With me,” Jon said to Ghost. 

With the direwolf at his side and followed by his guards he entered the great hall. As he strode through the center aisle toward the dais, men called out his name and toasted him. Jon smiled blandly in return until he had reached the high table and sat down at his usual place. He would only stay for a short while, too exhausted from the day’s events to talk to his bannermen and peers.

Their number dwindled as the days went by. Most lords were eager to return home, and only those who were hoping to gain Jon’s or the king’s favor, or who had to command their men in the impending campaign, remained. 

Jon saw the Blackfish talking to Lady Asha. Lord Manderly had a quiet conversation with Howland Reed. Lady Dustin, sitting alone at the end of the table. She had tried to find an opportunity to talk to him for weeks, and he actually owed her an apology for putting her off from day to day. Jon sighed and sent his new squire, Talin Umber, to ask for her to dine with him.

Lady Dustin accepted gracefully and took a seat at his side. Jon recalled her promise to send them provisions from Barrowtown, and wondered if she would find an excuse for not doing so. Ghost did not like her, indicating that she, in turn, did not like Jon, maybe even wished him ill, but there was no reason to believe she would renege on her word. Jon could not expect everyone to love him. 

Lady Dustin’s sharp gaze rested on him during their meal. Jon did not eat much. He could feel exhaustion taking its toll on him. He was used to restless nights, a hard day’s work, but this day had been trying, to say the least. 

“Lord Snow,” Lady Dustin said after a while. “You look terrible, if you forgive me for saying so.”

“Of course, my lady. I am afraid it has been quite a long day.”

“And now I am making it even longer. If you wish to continue our conference another time, only say the word.”

“No, my lady, I left you waiting long enough.”

“As you wish. You may have been told, my lord, that I supported Roose Bolton more readily than others.”

“That has been said, my lady. I assumed the reason was that you were tied to the Boltons by marriage.”

“My sister Bethany was Roose’s second wife, and while I was never particularly fond of him, I have to admit that he treated her well. My nephew was very dear to me; I was devastated when he died.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“However, I abhorred the abomination Roose called his bastard son. Ramsay Snow was nothing more than a rabid dog that should have been put down long ago. For getting rid of him, the North owes King Stannis a debt. That alone should be enough to earn him our favor.”

“He has done more than that. If not for King Stannis, the Wall would have been breached, and the North left defenseless against the free folk and the Others.”

Lad Dustin nodded. “That, too, is a reason for gratitude. Though I must say with regret that while I promised the king and you to send provisions from Barrowtown, there will be a delay. The Boltons’ extended stay took a toll on our stores. It takes time to re-stock our food and beverages, collecting what we can from our peasants. My men do not tarry, yet they will hardly be able to bring in all we promised before you march for the Dreadfort.”

“The king will not be pleased,” Jon said.

“I am aware of that, Lord Snow. Therefore I decided to tell you. I have no wish to be a target for the famous Baratheon ire. As the Regent of Winterfell – our liege lord, I am sure you will be able to explain this to the king in a manner he will not regard as an insult.”

Jon could hardly refuse her request, although he wished she had decided to talk to Stannis herself. He did not believe she was afraid of the king. “When exactly will the provisions arrive?”

“Two weeks hence, as an estimate.”

“Do I have your word on that?”

“Indeed, Lord Snow.”

“Very well. And you will send the agreed amount of men-at-arms as well?”

“Of course.”

“Then I will do my best to assure the king of the inevitability of the delay.”

“I thank you, my lord,” she said with grace. “One more thing, my lord.”

“Yes, Lady Dustin?

“Your father’s bones have been laid to rest in their rightful place, I think?”

_My father’s bones._

_My father was slain at the Trident. He was burned after, as the Targaryens used to do with their dead._

“Yes, my lady.”

“I would have come to witness, but I visited the crypts once and the way down there was very exhausting. I am not as young as I used to be. I saw you leaving the crypts today with Theon Turncloak.”

So they had been seen despite their attempt to hide. Jon shrugged, wondering why Lady Dustin felt the need to mention it to him.

“I could not fail to notice that although he murdered your brothers, he is still alive and free to roam the castle at will.”

“You must know, my lady, how Ramsay Snow tortured him.”

“I do know it. The poor man has lost his wits. If I were you, I would not take anything he says too serious. He may seem sane one minute and behave like a madman the very next. His mind has been so severely damaged. Even apart from that... one cannot trust the words of a turncloak. Theon Greyjoy turned his cloak inside out so many times it is hard to count.”

Jon did not know what to say to that. It seemed strangely out of context, and she was misjudging Theon greatly. “As you say. Will you please excuse me, my lady?”

As she nodded with a smile, Jon got up and left the great hall.

The stairs to his rooms were so long and steep it seemed like he would never arrive. Ghost and his guards followed him in silence, respecting his unspoken wish for privacy. He passed the king’s solar and thought of Stannis, and what the king had done to him there only a few hours ago. 

He passed the lord’s chambers. For a moment, he imagined Eddard Stark standing on the doorstep. The man who had not had not been his father, but to whom he owed his life nonetheless, and a larger debt than he could have imagined. 

Jon passed the lady’s chambers. Lady Stark, who had resented him so much, was now dead, slain at the Red Wedding. She could have made his life a lot more miserable, had she chosen to. But she had been a Tully, and _Family, Duty, Honor_ had been more to her than an empty phrase.

He reached the door to Robb’s suite. Stannis’ men stood guard in front of it. Their eyes followed him as he climbed the next stairs. Jon took a deep breath. He could not help but think of Theon. Would he share Stannis’ bed tonight? For an impossible moment Jon wished he could take the liberty to ignore the guards, knock at the door and beg the king to let him stay, in the bedchamber that had once belonged to Robb. Robb, who had been so full of life, so brave. They had last seen each other in the yard the day Jon rode for the Wall. Robb, his brother. _Cousin._ But the word felt wrong, alien on his tongue as he shaped it without making a sound. 

He bypassed Sansa’s and Arya’s rooms that had once belonged to Lady Lyanna. Lyanna Stark, who had loved blue winter roses and run away with a prince, to give birth to a son and die in a foreign land, under a bright southern sky. Jon could not think beyond that, had no capacity left to comprehend. 

As he arrived in his own chambers at last, he was so tired he could barely move. Taking off his coat and boots required a serious effort, and he let them drop to the floor where he stood. Jon lay down on the bed, closing his eyes. The winds of winter were howling outside. Yet Winterfell’s halls and corridors still held the echoes of a long summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who feel the sex scene between Jon and Stannis is kind of familiar, that is because it was inspired by [A Boy Like Me by workswithwords](http://workswithwords.livejournal.com/269959.html).
> 
> When I wrote the scene, I knew I had read something similar not too long ago, but I was not sure where or when. I wanted the same dynamic for Jon and Stannis in Salt Boy. As I discovered the original source by accident, I realized the smiliarities were much more obvious thant I had thought, and considered re-writing my version. But I felt the idea was simply too good to pass up, and I think it worked out well.


	25. Stannis VII

Shireen’s idle chatter wore on his nerves. 

“... and then Alys – I mean, Lady Thenn – said that if her husband wanted to go with you, she would not hold him back, but he had better stay alive, or else she would be a widow and forced to wed another great oaf like him.”

Stannis ground his teeth.

“Very well,” he said when she had come to an end. “I think it is time for you to go to bed.”

Her face fell. “Yes, father,” she said and stood, curtseyed and made ready to leave. 

“I look forward to hearing of your ride tomorrow,” Stannis heard himself say. “We may dine together in the great hall.”

He was not fond of taking his dinner in the company of so many others. But it was time he showed his face again, so they did not forget him in their joy over their precious Lord Snow. Dining in the great hall also had the advantage that he could devolve the duty of entertaining Shireen to the ladies there. 

If Stannis had to endure one more evening of this, he would start to break the interior. Greyjoy’s intervention on the day of Selyse’s cremation had somehow established a precedent, and now every evening Shireen knocked on this door and asked to dine with him. How could he refuse? The poor girl had lost her mother. 

It was not that Shireen was stupid. Far from it. Sadly her mind was set on trivialities, and her observation skills centered solely on the ladies in Selyse’s retinue and their matters. She needed more encompassing tutelage. Stannis was determined to see her properly educated, not only by a maester, but by a loyal and knowledgeable knight, who would hopefully also teach her not to be afraid of her own shadow, and to hold her head with a little more pride. 

Yet all his men would be needed in the forthcoming battles. Tutoring a little girl would not be seen as an honor, but as a poor reward for any man who had served loyally and excelled in his duties. Even if it was the king’s daughter. A veteran, maybe, too badly wounded to return to the field. It was something Stannis needed to consider more closely over the course of the next few days.

Once Shireen was gone, Stannis turned to his guards. “Summon the turncloak, at once.”

Quite some time had passed before Greyjoy finally arrived. As he limped inside the room, Stannis glared at him. “Where have you been? Were you feasting and guzzling down ale while I had to endure my daughter’s mindless babbling?” 

Greyjoy frowned. “No,” he said as he bowed. Stannis had told him not to kneel any more when they were alone; there was no need after all.

“What _were_ you doing?” Stannis asked, still resentful.

“I was... walking around.”

“You do that all the time. What is there to see in this poor excuse for a castle?”

“Not much,” the turncloak said, and Stannis snorted.

Stannis took a moment to look at Greyjoy more closely. Greyjoy was still too thin, but he had started to regain weight since their arrival at Winterfell. His hair had grown back dark, streaked with grey, and he looked a lot less hideous than when Stannis had first laid eyes on him. While his movements were still awkward at times, he had become better adjusted to his disablement, and the impairments were not as obvious as they had been. 

These days, the haunted look was mostly gone from Greyjoys eyes. Whenever it returned, he retreated into himself, becoming someone else altogether: that wounded, repulsive creature called Reek that Stannis had come to hate with a passion. 

All in all, Greyjoy had proven resilient. A true man was forged by fire. Greyjoy might appear blackened by soot and ashes, unrecognizable to those who had know him before, but what had been left by the flames might very well be the best part of him. Time would bring it to light. A little of it could be seen even now – glints and traces of a sharp mind and a boldness of thought that Stannis found appealing, even when it annoyed him.

Stannis shook his head at himself. There it was again, the dangerous urge to defend the turncloak, redeem him even, take those glints, bring them to the surface and make them shine.

A dangerous sentiment, and one so unlike him.

“I should have kept you in chains,” Stannis said in response to Greyjoy’s earlier words. “You walk and speak too freely.”

Greyjoy looked at him, his face guarded in a way that surprised Stannis. The quiet measuring intensity of his gaze was new. He said nothing to Stannis’ reproach, which seemed odd. 

“No glib reply?” Stannis asked.

Greyjoy shook his head and directed his gaze to the floor. 

“What is it with you today?” 

“Nothing. Only...”

“What?”

“I am tired.”

What did that statement mean, beyond the obvious? Stannis could read between the lines well enough to tell that Greyjoy was not referring to his physical state. 

“And I should care about that, why?” Stannis asked. 

Greyjoy lifted his head again. His eyes were unreadable. “I only said.”

“I heard it,” Stannis replied, annoyed. “Come here.”

Greyjoy approached him with hesitant steps, coming to a halt right in front of him. 

“I know that Lord Snow told you about his mother. You better guard your tongue. If anyone finds out, I will hold you responsible.”

“So that means if Reed or Snow himself cannot keep their mouths shut, you will blame me? Splendid. Yet another reason why you may have my head.”

“If I wanted your head, I would have taken it long ago,” Stannis said

“Yes, but you had a reason to let me keep it,” Greyjoy muttered.

“You are exhausting your leeway,” Stannis said. “What is the cause of your childish petulance?”

“No reason,” Greyjoy said, an outright lie. 

Stannis closed his fingers around his wrist and squeezed. Greyjoy hissed and tried to shake his hand off, but when Stannis tightened his hold further, he stopped resisting and went still. 

“Look at me,” Stannis ordered. 

Greyoy obeyed, revealing a fury he seemed unable to hide. It was obvious that he had to bite his tongue not to lash out at Stannis. Although he had ceased his attempts to free himself, the tension in his body was a clear sign that Stannis’ touch was not welcome.

Stannis let go of his wrist. “Will you tell me what this is about?”

“What do you want from me?” Greyjoy asked instead, grimacing, and rubbed his wrist with his left hand. “Why did you summon me? Was it only to tell me that I have to keep my silence about Snow? There is no need for that.”

“I hope so. And, no, it was not the only reason.”

Greyjoy waited, stiff and clearly unhappy. 

Stannis shook his head. He cupped Greyjoy’s chin with one hand and tilted it back. Greyjoy stared at him, resentment in his eyes, and Stannis leaned forward and kissed him hard.

Today there was no yielding. Greyjoy endured the kiss, but it felt awkward, more forced than anything they had done in quite a while. 

Stannis pulled back and frowned. He stayed silent, not sure how to react. That did not happen often. 

Greyjoy, who had stared fixedly at a point somewhere at the ceiling, suddenly blinked, gazed at Stannis. He exhaled sharply. A part of the tension ran out of his body. 

“Gods be damned,” he muttered, and ran a hand through his short hair. “Might as well...” 

The very same hand came up around Stannis’ neck, urging him to bend forward. Greyjoy kissed him with more aggression than he ever had before. 

Whatever had made him hesitate and offer resistance before turned into forceful determination. Still kissing Stannis as if he was the one who desired it, Greyjoy backed him against the table. Stunned by this unexpected course of action, Stannis almost lost his balance. His hands came up on their own to clutch at Greyjoy’s shoulders – whether to reel him in or push him away, Stannis did not know. 

Greyjoy broke the kiss, breathing hard. His eyes challenged Stannis, as did his words. “You want to fuck me? Then do it already.”

Stannis stared at him in disbelief. What had happened to Greyjoy, to make him act so carelessly, as if he were the one to dictate the rules? For a short moment it almost felt as if their positions were reversed. 

Stannis heard himself growl, “You talk too much,” as he reached for Greyjoy, spun him around and pulled him against his chest. 

“I gave you the chance to speak what is on your mind. You refused, and now I will have no other word from you, not a single one. It is your fault I spent the last hour listening to my daughter’s chattering, and now I will have peace and quiet. Do you understand?

There was a moment when he thought that Greyjoy might refuse, might break away from him – but then he relaxed back against Stannis and nodded. His submission seemed so natural, effortless even, that for a moment Stannis was almost fooled into believing it was chosen, freely given. That was an illusion, of course, and he remind himself not to forget that Greyjoy was forced into this, that he had no say in anything. Stannis could not help but wonder, though: if Greyjoy _had_ chosen this, what might happen if Stannis gave him free reign about that strange dance of theirs? If he left the control to him, let him take the lead? The thought stirred something deep inside of him, but Stannis quashed it, not comfortable with what it might entail.

Stannis started to unlace Greyjoy’s clothes. He cast aside the cloak and undid the laces of the doublet one by one, then pulled it off the turncloak’s shoulders. 

Greyjoy wore a thinner shirt underneath, without laces, and lifted his arms obligingly when Stannis set to take if off. He shivered as Stannis’ fingers touched bare skin, but whether from the touch or from the cold, Stannis could not say, since he could not see his face in their position. 

His hands splayed out on Greyjoy’s chest, holding him in a tight embrace. He bit at the nape, softly, and was rewarded with another shiver and an barely audible sigh. 

It went on in that fashion, Greyjoy giving in to him, bare and trembling, and the sight was intoxicating like few things ever had been. Stannis traced his pectorals and upper arms. They were too thin, and Stannis told him so. “You are becoming weak. Soon you will be no stronger than a girl. I will have you train with the squires.”

Greyjoy’s throat worked, and Stannis was sure he would be hearing words of protest, wondering what he would do in response, but Greyjoy stayed silent, merely shaking his head.

“Yes, you will,” Stannis said as a reply to the unspoken denial. His thumbs followed the line of Greyjoy’s spine, from below the hairline down to the small of his back, circling each protruding vertebra. His palms and fingers slid over smooth skin. The scars had faded a little more since the first time Stannis had seen them. They looked older than they were. 

Greyjoy’s head fell forward at the touch. He made a small sound, one that Stannis repaid with a bite to his neck. “Keep silent.”

Stannis undid his breeches next, let his hands wander over the swell of Greyjoy’s behind and his strong thighs, a featherlight touch that sent his own blood to boil. He had been in a state of arousal for half the day, and this, now, set him afire. 

Stannis wondered, for a moment, what Greyjoy would do if he used his mouth on him, as he had with Jon Snow.

Snow, not Stark. Now that Stannis knew the truth, _Snow_ had taken on a special meaning. _Targaryen._ The dragon’s blood. Lady Lyanna’s son. _If she was anything like her son, it is no wonder Robert went to war over her._

Stannis had never before considered to lower himself so, pleasuring another man the way he had been told only whores did and, if a man was lucky, a wanton tavern wench. A degrading act, and yet Stannis had not hesitated for a moment. The feel of it, the taste – he recalled it vividly. Even now it sent a rush of heat to his loins and a blush to his face.

Even so. What had happened with Jon Snow, would not occur again. ‘Another time’, Stannis had said, but even then, he knew he could not do that to Snow. _I have the turncloak for that._ What would the northerners say if they knew their lord shared the king’s bed? And worse, what would the stormlanders say, who already thought Stannis was making too many concessions toward Snow? Too much was at stake. 

How eager Stannis had been to please Snow. If he allowed their ill-advised dalliance to go any further, what else would he agree to do? Bend over for him? 

No. There was no way it could be permitted to continue. As for the turncloak... Stannis could enjoy him and pay the price, but he could not possibly take Grejoy’s pleasure into account. 

But Greyjoy was right there, right here with him, and Stannis could not ignore him any more than he could ignore the winter. Not just the means to an end, as much as Stannis would have liked to pretend. 

Stannis hand kept wandering, from Greyjoy’s back to his front, seeking out the secret, hidden places: his cock, almost fully hard, a revelation on its own, but Stannis ignored it for the time being; his testicles, tight and round in their wrinkled sack. The touch there made Greyjoy draw a sharp breath and held it, became still and tense. 

So powerful, the male body, and at the same time so vulnerable. No other place made it quite as obvious. Stannis closed his hand around them carefully. A memory came to his mind, unbidden, of one of the little birds from the Summer Islands Shireen had kept as pets back at Dragonstone. Stannis had caught it in his hands. A fluttering of wings, a rapid heartbeat against his finger. The poor thing had been frightened, so much that it died in his hand, its tiny head had falling to the side, a broken little thing. 

Stannis pressed his forehead to Greyjoy’s shoulder, willing the memory away, but it seemed too intimate a gesture. He closed his lips around the tendon of the neck, sucking hard while he still cupped Grejoy’s testicles. His free hand closed around Greyjoy’s cock. Greyjoy threw his head back and made a high, keening sound. He arched back into Stannis the one moment and thrust into his grip the next. 

“Behave,” Stannis admonished. He let go of Greyjoy. “Get on the bed.” 

His eyes were drawn to Greyjoy against his will, the way he moved and positioned himself, the pale skin, marked by scars and still alluring. Greyjoy took the grease from the nightstand and started to prepare himself, but stopped when Stannis told him to. His blue eyes were thoughtful; with his head turned to the side, he watched Stannis undress, and where he would usually have made a jest, he kept silent. 

It was different this time. After Stannis had loosened the passage with his fingers and enough of the salve to leave wet, glistening trails on his skin, Greyjoy’s body opened up to him like a sheath to a sword. 

“Yes,” Greyjoy whispered, and Stannis felt no inclination to reprimand him for speaking after all, not when it sounded like that, a sweet surrender.

He started to move, and Greyjoy made another desperate noise, and started to push back into Stannis’ thrusts, lifting his hips. They were moving together, almost effortless. With silent amazement Stannis noticed how Greyjoy came undone under him, unabashedly wanton, filth spilling from his lips and senseless demands.

“There, please, just...” 

And although he should not, Stannis found himself wanting to please Greyjoy. He stopped to lean over him and whispered in his ear. “Keep silent, and you may get your wish.”

That brought him another curse and an almost vice-like pressure around his cock. Stannis hissed.

“Please,” Greyjoy whispered and fell silent.

Stannis set a slower pace, pushing in deep every time, and took his clues from the way Greyjoy’s breathing changed and his hands clutched at the sheets. He knew for sure what it was Greyjoy wanted when he thrust from a slightly different angle and Greyjoy tensed and inhaled with a shocked gasp.

_That, there. _Stannis bit his lips. _I must not...___

__But he did, again and again, until Greyjoy’s body went rigid under him. Greyjoy cried out once, a sharp, broken sound. A violent shudder ran through him, and his release spurted all over the sheets. Stannis felt a wild, triumphant surge of satisfaction. While the tension slowly went out of Greyjoy and his trembling subsided, Stannis fought not to follow him over the edge too soon. His hands tightened their hold on Greyjoy’s hips to keep him in position as he thrust a few more times. Greyjoy sighed, pliant and sated beneath him._ _

__“Brace yourself,” Stannis ordered, gruffly, and Greyjoy obeyed, supporting his weight on his forearms. As he turned his head to the side, his eyes were wide, blue like the morning sky over Dragonstone’s shore. Stannis thrust in again, closer to the edge than he wanted, and stayed like that for a moment. His fingers traced the scars at Greyjoy’s hip that Ramsay Snow had left there, and Greyjoy gasped and tensed._ _

__“You were never his,” Stannis heard himself say. “He never had a part of you that mattered,” and wondered why he said so, and whether it was really the truth._ _

__Greyjoy’s eyes fluttered close, and he whispered as Stannis thrust again, “I don’t know.”_ _

__Stannis had no answer for him, but Greyjoy did not seem to expect one._ _

__Stannis closed his eyes, concentrating solely on the pleasure Greyjoy’s body brought him, and with a few more, drawn-out thrusts, he found release at last._ _

__As soon as Stannis had pulled out of his body, Greyjoy sprawled out on the bed, limp like a starfish._ _

__Stannis stared at him, half-annoyed and half-amused. He wondered, had Robert suffered such behavior in his countless bedmates? Had Renly granted his squire such liberties?_ _

__Despite it all, Stannis could not deny that it brought a certain amount of satisfaction, being able to please another that way._ _

__In the beginning it had seemed an important distinction that Greyjoy found no pleasure in the act, that even if he was spared a traitor’s death, he was still punished for his deeds in a way. Now Stannis could no longer keep up the pretense._ _

__For the very least, he should send the turncloak back to his own bed, but Stannis liked him right where he was. A bedwarmer, nothing more, another man might have said, but Stannis knew himself better than that._ _

___He is mine. And as he might not be for much longer, there is no sense in denying myself any pleasures that come with it._ _ _

__Greyjoy stirred as Stannis shoved him aside none too gently, and opened sleepy blue-grey eyes to look at him. His gaze focused for a moment on Stannis’ face, and whatever he saw there made his lips curve in a small smile._ _

__Stannis lay down on his back. Greyjoy curled up on his side and put his head on Stannis’ shoulder, a position he seemed to be especially fond of._ _

__Try as he might, Stannis did not have it in himself to object._ _


	26. Theon XII

Stannis kept true to his words. Come morning, Theon found himself armed with a dagger and a short sword, as Snow had once suggested, in the yard, training with boys ten years younger than him. Almost worse was the fact that Devan had been told to look after him and took his duty seriously. The boy kept close to him while Alysane Mormont, Winterfell’s new master-at-arms, drilled them. 

Theon found he was even worse off than he had imagined. Where he had been at least adept, if not brilliant, he was now hopelessly incompetent. The she-bear had him go through a basic drill. Theon stumbled and fell half a dozen times, dropped his sword twice, and the first time she attacked him in earnest, he ended up on the ground with her blade at his throat and could not even tell how it had happened. 

He blinked, surprised, while she stood over him and laughed. 

Theon climbed to his feet and sneered at her. “You fight like a man. Do you wish you were one?”

“You fight worse than my little sister,” she replied, malice in her eyes. “We should call the king’s daughter, she might be a match for you. ” 

To say that the she-bear had not been happy about his presence was an understatement. Poor Devan had borne the brunt of her anger. She had not gone easy on the boy today. 

Why Snow had chosen her as his master-at-arms was a question Theon could not answer. Maybe because it annoyed Stannis. Snow was good at that, doing things the king did not approve of. Yet, strangely, Stannis admired him for it.

Mormont attacked again. Theon brought his blade up just in time to block her blow, and the blades locked. She made use of her superior weight and strength, and his grip was not strong enough to hold steady. The only possible action – retreat, dodge, lunge out with a quick strike, did not work well. He lost his balance on what should have been a quick step to the side and fell again. Her blade nicked his brow right over his left eye and drew blood. It spilled over his skin, warm and wet and all too familiar. Theon shied away from it, but since he was the one bleeding, it lead to a series of convulsive twitches, until he covered his head with his arms. For a moment he was back at the Dreafort, with a flayed, bleeding corpse chained over his head, drops of blood running through his hair, down his face. He whimpered, helplessly, and ducked low.

Only slowly he regained a sense of his surroundings, and realized that the noise in his ears was laughter, not only from Mormont, but from the squires as well. Even the men-at-arms at the wall had seen his dismal performance, and crowed and cawed like a flock of carrion birds.

Great. Was that what Stannis had wanted?

Lady Alysane looked down at him. “Have you had enough, turncloak?”

 _I had enough before I started, you stupid cunt._ Theon struggled to his feet and picked up the sword. 

The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, but he still felt shaken. Before he could say or do anything else, a familiar voice cut in.

“Lady Mormont, will you excuse my brother for a moment?” Asha asked. She had approached them without Theon noticing. Her hand rested on the hilt of the dirk in her bodice. “I wish to speak with him.”

Theon groaned and turned around to face her. “What do you want?”

“A word with you, Theon. _Elsewhere._ Or are you so keen on earning another defeat?”

The she-bear spat on the ground, disgusted. “Kraken. Leave my training ground, and take your brother with you, he is of less use here than a straw dummy. Those, at least, do not topple down unless they are hit.”

While the weapon training was torture, it still beat a conversation with Asha by a league. Theon sighed, sneered at Lady Mormont one more time and put back sword and dagger on the rack. Asha waited impatiently, her feet tapping the ground. 

As he hobbled over to her, she offered him a kerchief to clean his cheek. He ignored her, using his sleeve instead. 

“You should see the maester,” Asha said, observing him with a critical eye.

“Why? It is just a scratch.”

“Of course you know best, Theon,” she said. 

Theon glared at her, and she gifted him with a smile, sweet and false. 

“Now, brother, walk with me.” She took his arm and led him away from the training ground, her wide, swaying stride more suited for a deck than the rocky, snow-covered ground of Winterfell’s courtyard. Devan’s disapproving gaze followed them, but he made no attempt to stop them. 

“The king refuses to hear me out,” Asha complained, once they were out of earshot. “Why is any petty lord admitted to his presence, and I beg for an audience a dozen times only to be rebutted?“

“You do not truly wonder about that, do you?” Theon asked. 

Asha shot him an annoyed glare. 

“What do you want from him, anyway?”

“To let me fight,” she said. “He cannot even say it is because I am a woman, not after he accepted help from Mormont and made her my guard.”

“He let you fight,” Theon reminded her. 

“Yes, back at the village, when he had no other choice. He had to feed my men, so why not make use of them? And of course they would not go to war without me, so he had to unchain me. The she-bear watched my every move, and he had you as a guarantee for my obedience.”

“You are not in chains anymore. What else do you want?”

“I am still a prisoner, and Stannis refuses to take my oath of fealty. All because of an empty ceremony Uncle Euron held at Pyke.”

That, Theon had to admit, had been their uncle’s masterstroke. “The king follows the law.”

“Only when it suits him,” Asha said coolly. “The day the king decides it is in his best interest, I will find myself wed to one of his knights, and my marriage to Erik will be declared invalid. Your precious Stannis is no better than all the others. Justice? When it is convenient. Look at you, by right you should be dead, but instead you walk around with your ugly head still on your shoulders.”

“And here I was, thinking you liked me better with my head attached,” Theon replied.

Asha snorted. “Do not be obtuse, brother. You know what I meant to say.”

“That you do not care for marriage very much. That you would like to go on living like the man you are not.”

Asha rarely let her anger show. Now her nostrils flared, but she smiled at Theon. “The way you do, you mean? Oh, but wait, my dear brother, you do not. While I fight in battles, you cannot even handle a sword. Our roles should have been reversed. Had I been born a man, I would have been father’s heir, and no one would have challenged my claim on the Seastone Chair.”

The words were meant to wound Theon’s pride, and indeed they stung, but he merely shrugged. These days, it took a lot more to make him lash out at her in anger. “Had you been born a boy, they would have made _you_ Lord Stark’s ward.”

There was little she could say to argue the point. She only twisted her mouth and scowled. 

They walked in the direction of the great hall. Beside a large puddle of half-frozen mud she halted again. “If Stannis accepted my oath, I could fight at his side and prove that I am worthy of ruling the Iron Islands. Instead he thinks that if he weds me to Ser Justin, the man will rule Pyke and me as well.”

Theon snorted. “Unlikely. You will lead him through Pyke by his prick, more like.” Ser Massey was no match for his sister. Theon had not seen much of him, but enough to be sure of that. 

“Yes, well, it is not as if I were averse to marrying him, as long as he would be content to let me rule our people and serve the king. But for that he would have to see me as more than a rebellious child – and the same goes for the king. If I help Stannis to win the Iron Throne, fighting at his side, they cannot cast my opinions aside as easily.”

“A nice delusion, sister,” Theon mocked her. “Your support will not gain him much, not without the men and ships to make a difference in battle.”

“Still. I _refuse_ to stay at Winterfell as a captive, waiting until Massey returns from Braavos. There is a war to fight. The Seastone Chair is at stake.”

“Stannis will not move for the iron isles. He has other battles to fight.”

“If he succeeds to bring the ironborn to his banners, he can take the stormlands from the sea. Since Dragonstone has fallen, he has no other fleet to speak of.”

“White Harbor will give him war ships.”

“Not enough to try for King’s Landing. He will have to do it the hard way: move through the Neck, besiege the Twins, take the riverlands and Casterly Rock.”

“If your knight of the moths returns with sellswords from the Free Cities...”

“That will take months,” Asha said. “I doubt Stannis will sit idle. Things have changed since our uncle was chosen by the kingsmoot. Stannis has taken Winterfell, and the North is united again under a direwolf banner. Now he has to gain further victories. I would rather the ironborn fought with him than against him.”

Theon raised his eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“Have you seen him fight?” she answered his question with one of his own. “Recall you history lessons, if you will. He bested the iron fleet when father crowned himself for the first time. He lost the Battle of the Blackwater, true. And yet – with his fleet defeated and the war seemingly lost – he did what no one expected of him and sailed north to fight at the Wall and defend the realm. Then he took Deepwood Motte. He won the battle of Winterfell. True, Manderly’s men changed sides, but even so, he would have defeated the Boltons. True, the Blackfish and Reed took Moat Cailin back from the Boltons for him. But both declared for Stannis without hesitation. Have you heard the latest news?”

Theon had. This very morning, a raven from the Dreadfort had brought the Freys’ offer to negotiate. They had heard that Moat Cailin had fallen and were well aware of the fact that, while they might hold the castle for some time, they could not expect any help from the South.

“The tides have turned,” Asha resumed. “I believe that Stannis will, in the end, win.”

Theon stared at her. “One might start to think you have become fond of him.”

“Not as fond as you, brother,” she quipped. “And certainly not in the same way. Although, should the king wish to marry me, I would not refuse his offer.”

Theon almost choked at that. “Stannis? Marry _you_?”

“Of course he would never. But he does need a queen. You know that, don’t you?”

 _He may need one, but he most certainly does not want one._ “I know that. But why are you telling me?”

“I thought that maybe you have become _too_ fond of him.” 

“Do not be afraid,” Theon replied, as offhandedly as he dared. “I do not expect the king to ask for my hand in marriage. The only cloak Stannis will ever give me is a black one.”

“Good,” Asha said. “Because you must know he would never keep you.”

Theon knew that, and had no need to hear it from Asha. “I don’t know about that, sister. As long as my arse is tight enough for his cock, he might not care about the rest.”

She only rolled her eyes. “You are trying to dissuade me with your crudeness. It will not work; you need to do better than that.”

They started walking again and had nearly reached the castle yard, when Asha stopped and gripped Theon’s arm. The king had just left the great keep, with Jon Snow at his side, and walked toward the stables. An unusual amount of men and horses and wagons had caused quite a commotion there, and Asha frowned. 

“What is going on?”

“The provisions Lady Barbrey promised,” Theon said. He had caught sight of her, standing next to Ser Robert Dustin and two unknown knights who had obviously come with the train of carts and wagons. 

“The king and Lord Snow seem close these days,” Asha observed. “You would not know anything about the degree of their familiarity, would you, Theon?”

“No more than you,” Theon replied and was glad that his voice betrayed nothing. His eyes were fixed on Jon and the king as they approached Lady Barbrey. While Stannis had his stewards to deal with such things as provisions or the lack of them, he still took more interest in those matters than most lords Theon knew. 

They were not close enough to follow the conversation between the king, Jon and Lady Barbrey. Still, Theon felt uncomfortable watching them. He told himself that is was only because he did not wish to be caught staring, not because he wanted to avoid seeing them like this, comfortable in each other’s presence. 

Theon turned to walk toward the kitchen, ignoring Asha. He might as well try to find something to eat. As usual, the king had broken his fast only with bread and water, and while Stannis had shared with him, Theon was looking forward to a more sustainable meal. When he passed them at a distance, he could see the king’s expression, focused on Jon with quiet intent. For once, Stannis seemed to be content to let another do the bargaining, and his usual air of disapproval was almost gone.

No, Theon did not need to see that. 

~~~~~ 

In the evening, the king made an appearance in the great hall. He sat at the high table with his daughter, Jon, Lady Barbrey and Lord Manderly. The Blackfish had been invited to join them, as well as Lady Alys, who had become the princess’ confidante since the queen’s death. 

Theon tried not to turn his head in their direction and failed, time after time. There was _something_... something between Jon and the king that had not been there before. Jon appeared almost shy in the king’s presence, unusually flustered whenever the king spoke to him. He glanced at Stannis every so often, and each time it happened, his hand tightened its hold on the fork, or he hastily reached for his goblet. 

Next to Jon sat Lady Barbrey. The provisions she had promised had indeed arrived, and she had – expressing her wish to re-establish her house’s good relations to Winterfell – sent a herd of well-nourished cattle as well, and mead and wine from the cellars of Barrowtown. That left Jon no other choice but to treat her with the outmost courtesy as a guest of honor. 

The king’s fool juggled with colorful balls. Princess Shireen watched attentively, mesmerized. Theon wondered why she still seemed so enrapt by Patchface’s antics when she had known him for years. Stannis could not begin to guess why Stannis kept the fool at his court. He barely ever paid attention to his displays, and seemed more annoyed than entertained by them if he did. 

The serving girls and squires poured Lady Barbrey’s wine, offered to all the guests on the high table. With a smile, Lady Barbrey took the first sip from her cup, indicating she knew that Jon – and, more important, the king – did not trust her enough to try the wine first. Theon watched her face, her tightly guarded smile, and wondered. Had she given up on her plan to avenge herself on the Starks?

One of the squires brought a new plate of roasted meat to the high table. When he stepped up to the table to present it to the king, he suddenly slipped. The plate fell to the floor in a clatter, but its contents partly landed on the table, knocking over cups and bowls, and partly on the king’s daughter, who cried out in terror and jumped from her seat. 

Stannis was on his feet in the blink of an eye. While the squire, obviously frightened, dropped to his knees, stammering apologies, the king looked around, gauging the situation to see whether it represented a threat. Jon had risen as well, but when it became apparent nothing had happened but an accident – which the boy would doubtlessly pay for with a beating from his master – he simply beckoned for a servant to clean up the mess. Stannis shot the squire a withering glare, but said nothing and sat down again instead. Shireen, heat of embarrassment in her face, was fawned upon and ushered away by her ladies-in-waiting in a flurry.

It happened so fast that Theon thought for a moment he had only imagined it. Lady Barbrey reached for Jon’s goblet, her hand hovering over the rim for a second, as if she wished to lift it, before she seemingly realized her mistake, withdrew her hand and took her own cup instead. 

No one else seemed to have seen it. No one but Theon, and for a second, he refused to believe it. 

No, it had only been a mistake, he was truly as insane as they said if he thought... she would not... They were so far away, certainly he had only imagined to see such a small movement...

Lady Barbrey put her goblet down and smiled, watching as Jon sat down and resumed his meal.

Theon stared at her. His heart beat furiously in his chest. 

No one else had seen.

Theon rose to his feet. Between the rows of benches he had little room to move, and it took some serious effort to reach the center aisle. The dais was far away, the way blocked by servants and men coming and going from the tables. Theon had to reach it before Jon drank from his goblet again. He had to.

Theon thought about nothing else as he pushed aside a serving girl and one of Manderly’s sworn swords and one of the Wull’s pet dogs. He had to get there, now, now. 

Someone gripped his shoulder. “What do you think you are doing?” a drunken voice roared, and he almost fell. “Let go of me,” he hissed and freed himself with a quick, dodging movement.

Jon reached for his goblet.

Theon had almost made it to the dais when two of Stannis’ knights saw him and rose to their feet to stop him. He only just avoided being caught, and reached the dais with a desperate lunge.

“No,” he yelled. “Jon, don’t!” just as Jon took a deep swallow.

Too late, he thought numbly as he skidded to a halt in front of the table. All eyes were on him now, the king’s and Snow’s and hers, and Theon shook his head furiously and hissed, “She poisoned the wine, Snow.” 

Snow’s eyes widened, and he put down the goblet carefully. He licked his lips, as if tasting, belatedly, whether something had been off. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Stannis asked.

Theon turned his head to look at him. “Your Grace.” _Help me,_ he pleaded with Stannis, silently. _Believe me._ “Lady Barbrey poisoned the wine.”

A murmur rose amongst the lords at the table. “We all drank of it,” someone said. “There is no poison in it.”

“She did it just now. I saw it.”

“What, exactly, did you see?” Stannis asked. He leaned forward in his seat, a frown on his face.

“She reached for Snow’s goblet...”

Lady Barbrey shook her head. “You have lost your wits,” she stated. “It is true, I almost took the wrong cup by accident, but whatever you saw was just that, nothing else.” She cocked her head to the side. Her hands were steady, resting on the table, and her face betrayed nothing but honest confusion. “You poor man. Plagued by nightmares and visions.”

“Snow,” Theon forced out. “There is no _time._ The maester. Go to him. It was only one swallow, maybe he can – _where is Ghost?_ ”

Jon met his eyes, and for the first time, Theon could read fear in them. 

Jon rose to his feet. He was pale. 

Lady Barbrey shook her head. “My lord, you must know that I wish you no harm,” she said, and cautiously put a hand on Snow’s arm. “Theon Turncloak is insane, as we all know.”

But Jon’s eyes did not leave Theon’s. “I believe you,” he said slowly. 

“No!” Lady Barbrey protested. “Do you truly mean to take the turncloak’s word over mine?”

“Even if he did not – I do.” Stannis had risen as well, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“Send for Maester Pylos,” he ordered Ser Godry, “ _Hurry._ ” 

The urgency in his voice affected even Farring, who hastened to obey.

“I swear it on my husband’s grave,” Lady Babrey said, still calm, although her gaze flickered when it brushed past Theon to Stannis. “There is no poison in this wine.”

“Your Grace,” Robert Dustin objected. “You hear the lady. Do you doubt her honor? Is that the kind of respect you wish to show us?”

Others, too, voiced the same kind of objections. 

“She is lying,” Theon said. He was sure of it now. There had, admittedly, been room for doubt, but her last remark made it clear. “Ask her where her husband lies buried. Ask him why she hates the Starks so much that she wishes to see them destroyed.”

Jon started to cough, a horrible, rattling sound. He supported himself on the table with his arms, head bent.

Stannis drew his sword. 

Lady Barbrey drew a dagger. It happened so fast that Theon could only yell, “Snow!” as a warning, before she lashed out at Jon. He was unable to defend himself, and the dagger would have sliced his throat, had Stannis not been there first. He shoved Jon away roughly, and while Lady Barbrey let out a cry of anguish, he beheaded her with a single stroke. 

Her head hit the table with a thud and rolled, until it lay on the side, with blood pouring out from the cut and staining the table cloth. After a moment of suspense, her body fell as well.

Jon coughed again, and touched his throat is if he could, somehow, lessen the poison’s hold on himself. Red in his face, he drew labored, choked breaths. 

“The maester.” Stannis roared, and then, finally, Maester Pylos was there, yelling at Stannis’ knights to hold Jon him down while he shoved something in his mouth. 

Stannis, with his face blank, watched for a moment while Snow fought for air and the maester tried to ease his breathing. Then he looked up and sought out Theon’s gaze. 

He nodded once before he sheathed his sword. “Ser Richard. Arrest all her blood kin and take them to the dungeons. Strike down anyone who offers resistance without mercy.” 

The men and women in question rose to their feet one by one, shock and fear obvious on their faces. None of them even attempted to argue. It was dead silent in the great hall while Ser Richard and his men led away Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Ser Robert Dustin and a dozen of relatives. 

Maester Pylos, with the help of Devan and Ser Cobb, carried Jon away. 

Theon, who had, for a moment, forgot to move, retreated from the dais. Hundreds of eyes were on him as he left. He did not know what it meant. He could not have cared less.

~~~~~

Maester Pylos brought Jon to his bedroom in the great keep. For a while, the maester and his aides were in a frenzy, running here and there while they warmed Jon’s bed with hot bricks, removed the heavy pelts and replaced them with soft, smooth linen sheets, brought the maester’s books and supplies and the goblet with the remnants of the poison. As it became obvious that Jon would not die from the poison, the commotion died down, and the maester sat down beside Jon, who was enveloped by blankets from head to chest, a cloth imbued with ice water covering his throat.

“You need to stay calm,” Maester Pylos said. “The poison caused a swelling of your air passages. Anxiety and strain worsen the symptoms. Stay calm, try not to think about anything that might upset you, and focus on every breath you take. Try to make it smooth and regular, but do not force yourself to keep a certain pace. The best you can do is go to sleep until the swelling has gone down.”

He handed Jon a cup of milk of the poppy, supporting his head. “Drink. It will help you fall asleep. Your northern gods are with you, Lord Snow – anything more than the small sip you took, and you would have died.” 

Jon lay back, He turned his head to the side to look at Theon.

“I doubt the gods had any part in this,” he said in a voice that sounded so raw it almost hurt to hear it. 

Theon flinched. He had not thought Jon was aware of his presence.

As he approached the bed cautiously, Jon smiled at him, a tiny, tired upward curve of his mouth. 

“Lord Theon,” Maester Pylos said. “If his breathing changes – if there are more coughs or it slows down too much – put ice on his throat, but take care not to add too much pressure, and call for me. The longer he sleeps, the better. I will return in a few hours.”

“Why me?” Theon rasped. His own throat felt raw, as if he had been the one poisoned.

Maester Pylos sent him a solemn glance. “Because you are here.”

To that, Theon knew no reply, and while Maester Pylos left the room, Theon sat down on the stool beside the bed.

“Theon,” Snow whispered. “Thank you.”

Theon shrugged. He felt uncertain and attempted to cover it. “She wanted you dead, you fool. Why did you trust her?”

“I did not – but I would never have thought...”

“Nor did I,” Theon admitted in a whisper. 

He had known she hated the Starks, and should have told Jon. Lady Barbrey had sworn to Theon, down in the crypts, that Ned Stark would not rest in peace. That had been taken out of her hands when Reed and the Blackfish took Moat Cailin. Her long-cherished dream of revenge, destroyed. Her grudge against the Starks was rooted deep – Theon should have known she would not relent only because her plan had been thwarted. If anything, it had made her more vicious. In the end she had been desperate enough not to care about her own life, as long as she succeeded. The poison she had used – the maester had identified it as a less potent, but still deadly form variant of something called the Strangler – took effect almost immediately, so she would not have been able to evade the accusations. 

“I wish I knew why she did it,” Jon said, which meant that Theon had to explain. 

To his relief, Jon listened silently when Theon retold what he had learned from her during his stay at Winterfell with the Boltons.

“It is why she never loathed me to the same degree,” he said at last. “Because she did not mind the sack of Winterfell, or Bran and Rickon... she never knew they were the miller’s boys.”

Only Theon did, and Jon; and Stannis, if the king believed him at all. 

“I should have trusted Ghost,” Jon said ruefully.

“Where is he?” Theon asked, as he had in the great hall when the direwolf had been most regrettably absent. 

“He went for a hunt today. I don’t know why – I dreamed, but I could not make sense of it.”

That sounded odd. Theon wondered whether Snow was already hallucinating. His eyes had become dark and dreamy, his eyelids were drooping. 

“Whatever, Snow,” Theon muttered. “Try to stay alive, will you?”

“Do you care?” Jon asked him. It did not sound like a challenge, and not like mere curiosity either. There was something almost frail in the way his eyes searched Theon’s face, as if Jon, too, needed reassurance. 

Theon found he could only answer the question with one of his own. “Does it matter?”

Jon nodded, solemnly, and Theon relented. “I might,” he whispered.

“Then I will try,” Jon said with a half-smile, and Theon inhaled sharply. “For you.”

He could not possibly mean that. “For Winterfell,” Theon reminded him. Jon was drugged, almost asleep, Theon could not take his words seriously. “For the king.”

“That, too,” Jon admitted. His hand appeared from under the blankets and made a weak attempt to reach for Theon’s. 

Theon took it with his own, trying to keep the stumps from touching Snow’s skin. But Snow did not seem to mind the disfigurement, and squeezed, once.

“I am cold,” Snow whispered. “I miss the furs.”

“They could hinder your breathing,” Theon said. He had listened attentively as Maester Pylos explained it to Jon.

“I know. Could you...“

“Could I what?”

“Forget it,” Jon murmured. But he had not let go of Theon’s hand, and now he tugged, ever so slightly, until Theon understood and inhaled sharply. Jon immediately stilled. 

Theon hesitated only for a moment. Then he shed his boots and his doublet and slid under the sheets. He edged closer until he was pressed tightly against Jon’s side, who sighed and turned toward Theon until they lay together like lovers. Theon put his arm over Jon’s warm stomach, the other hand in his hair, and tucked his head onto Jon’s shoulder. 

His last conscious thought was that he had to get out of the bed again before anyone found them like this. But Jon was breathing steadily, compliant and alive in his arms, and Theon wanted, more than anything, to hold on.


	27. Jon VIII

Jon woke from the faint echo of a noise in his mind. He could not guess how much time had passed, but it was still dark outside. The fire was still burning merrily. Jon had turned on his side in his sleep and Theon lay behind him, an arm still around Jon’s waist, and his forehead rested between Jon’s shoulder blades. To Jon’s recollection, he had never been held like this before. 

What kind of noise had woken him? Jon propped himself up on one elbow to look around. His throat and chest were still hurting, but it was not the raw, edged pain from before, but a lingering soreness, as if he had been over-exerting himself by yelling commands in battle. 

Jon took one long, steady breath, the air widening his lungs and leaving again. It hurt, but he did not mind the pain. Now that he knew how being strangled from the inside felt, the ability to breathe seemed like a precious gift. 

_The second time I survived what should have been my sure death,_ he thought idly.

Then he saw the king standing beside the door, a tall, dark, figure, with his arms crossed at his chest. 

Their eyes met, and Jon almost cringed as he saw the cold, hollow expression. 

“Your Grace.”

“Lord Snow.”

Stannis did not move. Jon sat up slowly, and Theon sniffled behind him and curled up like a lost kitten.

Jon recalled, belatedly, that his chest was bare, and shivered in the cold draft and under the king’s gaze.

“The maester told me you will recover,” Stannis said. “You might wish to know that all of Lady Dustin’s kin await your judgment in the dungeons. It appears hard to believe that she planned this treason by herself, but from what I have heard, it does not seem like an unreasonable assumption. I was given to understand her grudge was of a personal nature.”

“It would seem that way,” Jon said.

Stannis nodded. His gaze rested on the bed. “I came to assure myself of your well-being. I did not expect to find you like this.”

Jon blushed. “This is –“ he realized, belatedly, that he should not presume what the king had meant to say, so he fell silent and waited.

Stannis’ dark eyes met his. “I admit to a certain curiosity as to why you decided to share your bed with a man you wished to see dead not too long ago.”

“He saved my life,” Jon said. “But even before that, I... changed my mind about him.”

“So I gathered.”

“He is not a bad man. I don’t think he ever was,” Jon said. “He made some truly condemnable decisions, but he regrets them – more deeply, I think, than he lets show.”

“You need not sing his praises,” the king said. “I am aware of all that and more. What I wish to know is what you want from him.”

What _did_ he want from Theon? Jon shook his head. He wished he could blame the milk of the poppy for the difficulty to find the right words, or his exhaustion, but he felt wide awake, and his head was clear. 

“I wish to protect him,” Jon said. “To make sure that he is not hurt any further. Theon and I, we were never close in the past – but things change. He is what is left of my family, of Winterfell, how it was before the war. He is no less my brother than Robb was.” 

Jon had not been able to admit that to himself before. But saying the words out loud settled things in his mind. 

“Do you mean to say that it is _brotherly_ comfort you are seeking from him?” Stannis asked sharply.

Jon heard no sarcasm in his voice. The way the king had said it seemed to indicate he wished to learn the truth, and trusted Jon not to lie to him.

He knew that he was blushing when he replied, with a shake of his head, “No. Not solely.”

“I see,” Stannis said curtly. 

There was a pause in which Jon considered explaining, defending himself, but it seemed futile. He only wished he could tell the king – tell him what? 

_That I wish he were here, with us._ Jon’s felt a lump in his throat. The sudden discovery made his heart beat faster, and the anxiety the maester had warned him of threatened to steal his breath once more. 

“You two may do whatever you wish. As long as you do not forget that he is _mine,_ ” Stannis said, and the brusque words were an unmistakable warning. 

“No,” Jon whispered, a protest against the implied assessment of the situation. 

“Your Grace -” and he started to cough and could not finish the sentence.

The pain in his lungs and throat was dire. He feared, for a moment, that he might fall unconscious from the lack of air and the strain, but he recalled the maester’s instructions and tried to level his breathing, tried to focus solely on the in and out of his breath.

Theon stirred behind him. “Snow?” he asked dazedly, but Jon could not answer. 

The king had approached the bed. “Should I call for the maester?”

Jon shook his head. Slowly the pain lessened and the coughing stopped. Still he could not speak, only breathe for long, painful moments. He lost track of time and sense of his surroundings. When he looked up at last, he saw Stannis and Theon exchanging a look. He could not tell what had transpired between them, whether something had been said or not.

“I will send Maester Pylos in,” the king said abruptly, and turned toward the door.

Stannis was gone before Jon could say another word. Theon sat by his side, silent for once. He was pale, and when Jon turned his head to look at him, he saw him swallow. 

“He did not like that,” Theon said softly. “Not at all.” 

Jon did not need to ask what he meant. “Will it... will it cause a problem for you?”

Theon shrugged, indicating that he either did not know or did not care. 

“You don’t...” Jon hesitated. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Strangely, yes.”

“All right,” Theon murmured. He lay back down. Jon followed, facing him. 

It felt strange, lying like that. Not bad, though, and as Theon cautiously lifted a hand to card through his hair, Jon closed his eyes again and sighed, and wound an arm around Theon to pull him closer. Maybe he was still affected by the milk of the poppy after all. 

Theon laughed silently; Jon could feel his little puffs of breath and the tremors running through his body. 

“You cling to me like a girl, are you sure the poison will not make you sprout teats over night?”

The words were harsh, but lacked scorn, and Jon only shook his head. “Quite. But feel free to leave any time if the prospect bothers you so much.”

Theon shrugged, but Jon could not fail to notice that his fingers tightened their hold in his hair. 

“Might as well stay to observe the outcome,” Theon said. “Just to make sure.” 

“Noble of you,” Jon remarked dryly. 

“Do not forget it.” 

Only moments later, Jon fell asleep.


	28. Stannis VIII

The war council had gone on for hours in the solar. Stannis’ patience began to run out. 

The lack of sleep put a strain on him; he had not been able to find proper rest. Whenever he closed his eyes, unbidden images came to his mind, disconcerting and upsetting. Jon Snow, coughing and struggling for every breath, in the great hall. The madness in Lady Dustin’s eyes as Stannis took her head. Snow, lying on his bed, sleeping soundly with Greyjoy at his side. Snow, looking at him with wide, dark eyes, telling him... telling him...

Stannis shook his head, chasing the images away, trying to focus.

“We will not accept anything but complete surrender,” he said at Umber’s latest suggestion, not bothering to look at the man. “There will be no gestures of good will as long as the Freys still hold hostages from the Red Wedding.”

He addressed Manderly next. “We also need to ensure that they will not be able to leave the Dreadfort unnoticed, and travel south by sea.”

“White Harbor’s ships guard the coast,” Manderly hastened to assure. “It might be possible for them to slip through if they sail at night and find shelter during the day. There are always ways and means for those desperate enough to escape. But I doubt that they will take the risk. If they leave the Dreadfort, they are on their own, losing any means to make a bargain. Even if they try... my men know where to look for them. They will find no safe harbor in the North.”

Stannis nodded. He knew the fat lord could hardly give him any guarantees. “That is sufficient, for the moment.”

“But, Your Grace...” Mors Umber objected. “A siege of the Dreadfort is a high price to pay for the capture of two lesser Freys. I still think we should grant them free passage if they are willing to deliver the castle to us in turn.”

“My decision is final. I will hear no more of it,” Stannis said. Treating with the northern lords was a tedious affair. Their belligerence was bothersome. He had never thought he would miss the deference the southerners showed their liege lords, but he did. 

“Does Lord Snow agree with this?” the Wull asked. 

Of the lords of the mountain clans, Stannis disliked Hugo Wull the most. He had been the first of the petty lords to join him on his march through the mountains toward Deepwood Motte, and the first to curry favor with Jon Snow once Stannis had declared him Regent of Winterfell. In turn the Wull had started questioning so many of Stannis’ decisions for the last few weeks that it bordered on insolence. While Lord Manderly behaved the same way, at least the fat lord had never made a secret of his intentions.

It took a considerable amount of willpower for Stannis to keep his answer civil and not let his aversion show. “You may ask him that question yourself once he joins us again.”

“Is he still suffering from the poisoning?” the Blackfish asked. So far, Tully had held back during their council meeting, not commenting on anything, but listening intently.

“The maester told me that the poison had left his blood, but that Lord Snow still needed rest to recover fully.” He had not seen Snow since the day befo

“Has the direwolf returned?”

“I would not know. The habits and whereabouts of Lord Snow’s pet wolf are of little interest to me,” Stannis made a point of saying with a raised eyebrow.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” Tully replied good-naturedly. “I believe I am speaking of a mind with many others when I say that I would feel better if the wolf were at Lord Snow’s side.”

“I will advise my scouts to look out for the wolf,” Stannis said and nodded at Ser Clayton, who bowed his head in acknowledgment of the unspoken command.

Just then the bell rang, announcing visitors from the south. 

Stannis took it as an excuse to end the meeting. “We will continue the council later.” 

To Stannis’ surprise, Lord Manderly was one of the first to lift himself from his chair. “I think that these bells announce something we all should witness, my lords, Your Grace.” 

He rubbed his hands, a satisfied expression on his face. “If I may say so, I have been waiting for this day far too long, and desperately wish to see these visitors.”

Stannis stared at him, trying to understand what the fat lord was saying. Who were the arrivals, and what did Manderly know of them? What was the cause of his obvious elation? The strangers advancing the gates at the very moment – did they present a threat to Stannis? Had Manderly played him false? 

Whatever the answers to those questions were, Manderly was making a fool of him with this display, and Stannis would not stand for it.

Rage started to boil inside of him, rising to the surface so quickly he understood, for possibly the first time in his life, how Robert had felt at such occasions, how irascibility might overcome reason.

“Explain your words,” Stannis demanded and rose to his feet. A small gesture to his squire, and the boy, who had been instructed to keep Lightbringer within reach all the time, came forth, offering the sword to Stannis. 

Stannis drew it without thinking and was before Manderly with a single, swift step, bringing the blade up, ready to strike.

Whatever enchantment Melisandre had used on the blade was still in effect; Lightbringer shone as bright as ever. Confronted with its otherwordly glow, the fat lord blanched.

“Your Grace...” 

“Kneel,” Stannis snarled. “ _Kneel before your king._ ”

Manderly almost toppled over as he obeyed. His face was red, and sweat ran in rivulets over his face. He looked like a pig. Stannis was disgusted, yet at the same time vengefully satisfied at his obvious fear. 

“I wish to apologize, Your Grace,” Manderly said. “I never meant to delude you, and would have told you long ago, but I had no proof for my words, and chances were always great the mission might fail. I only received the message a few days ago, and I wished for this to be a memorable day with reason to rejoice. Please, Your Grace, I beg you, go outside and see for yourself, and everything will become clear. If, after that, you still feel the need to take my head off, so be it.”

The northern lords, it seemed, were as clueless as Stannis. They whispered and muttered and fell silent again as Stannis did not reply, but none of them rose to Manderly’s defense.

Stannis stared at the flushed, unappealing face. Manderly’s eyes were watery, but sincere. All traces of a smile were gone.

Stannis slowly sheathed his sword and turned to leave. On his way out, he barked a short “Guard him,” at Ser Farring and Ser Horpe, who had also been part of the council. 

The first thing Stannis saw as he entered the castle yard was Jon Snow. He stood before the gate leading to the courtyard, with his back straight, clothed in his winter gear with his bastard sword strapped to his back. He was watching something – someone?

Stannis’ urge to yell at him – what was Snow doing here, when the maester had told him to stay in bed, foolish boy? – was stifled as he strode toward him and finally saw what Snow was looking at. 

On the muddy ground two large beasts were fighting – no, not fighting, _playing_. One of them, with white fur and red eyes, was Ghost. The other one was also a direwolf – black, with bright green eyes, shaggy and skinny and even larger. 

Snow looked up with an awed expression as Stannis stepped closer. 

“It is Shaggydog,” he said. “Rickon’s direwolf.”

“Are you sure?” Stannis said, staring at the huge animal. It was hard not to show the apprehension he felt. He had become used to Ghost, but this – this was a different kind of beast altogether. 

“I have... I have given orders to let the riders in,” Jon said in a hoarse voice, turning his head to look at Stannis. “A party of eight. Under the banner of House Stark.”

“Lord-Too-Fat has some explaining to do,” Stannis bit out. “If this is what it seems...” 

“They are here,” Jon rasped and pointed at the riding party that had just passed the gates. 

The bells had brought other people to the courtyard, nobles and commoners alike. Men-at-arms, gathered around them, ready to protect them against a possible threat. Stannis briefly caught sight of Greyjoy and his sister in the crowd of bystanders, surrounded by their ironborn. Reed and the Blackfish and all the other lords assembled as well. The crowd waited in silence, the tension palpable, while the arrivals rode toward them and halted their horses. 

The small party was led by a knight with the crest of House Glover. He dismounted, looking around for a moment, assessing the situation, until his gaze came to rest on Stannis and Snow. He stepped up to them, then knelt before Stannis with the effortless grace of a man who was used to reporting to nobbles of higher rank. 

“Your Grace,” he said. “Robett Glover, at your service, from White Harbor.”

Two other men, armed and in travel gear, dismounted as well, kneeling beside Glover. Behind them, a woman with shaggy brown hair slid from the horseback and helped her passenger – a small, hooded figure in a thick fur coat – alight. She did not kneel or even acknowledge their presence, but urged the child to step forward and drew the hood from his head, revealing a boy about six years old with auburn hair and blue eyes. 

The boy stared at Stannis. 

“You must kneel before the king,” Glover said to him in a whisper that was audible to everyone in the crowd.

A little awkwardly, with a scowl on his face, the boy obeyed. 

“I am Rickon Stark,” he said. “I am the son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark.”

Before Stannis could say or do anything, Jon Snow took a step toward the boy and fell to one knee. “Rickon. Do you remember me?” he asked. “I am Jon Snow.”

The boy squinted, clearly unsure.

“Shaggy knows Ghost,” he said, after a moment. “That means you are my brother, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Snow said, voice wavering, and held out a hand. “Yes, I am. Rickon Stark, Heir of Winterfell, welcome home.”

The boy took Jon’s hand, and when Jon smiled, he did, too. 

Cheers broke out among the crowd, calls of “Stark!” and “Stark of Winterfell” rose amongst the northmen. 

The cheering slowly died down as the two last riders dismounted. 

One was a boy, four-and-ten years at the most, or younger. Stannis did not recognize his face, and dismissed him from his thoughts, focusing on the other person, a hooded man, hooded with a grey beard, who stepped forward. Stannis’ gaze was drawn to him. He felt a jolt of recognition. The posture, the gait, so familiar, and yet...

The men stepped up to Glover and took a knee beside him. He took off his hood and his left glove and lifted his head to smile at Stannis. 

“Your Grace,” Davos Seaworth said. “I return to you at last.”


	29. Davos I

Davos had a mere moment to look at Stannis before the king’s hands gripped his and he was pulled to his feet. Stannis put his large hands on Davos’ shoulders. “It is truly you. I believed you lost, my onion lord.”

Davos smiled. “I believed myself lost, for a while,” he admitted. “I apologize, Your Grace, there was no way to give you notice of my continued survival.”

“Manderly has much to answer for,” Stannis said. “He let me believe you were dead, murdered in his court...”

“I hold no grudge against him, Your Grace. I wish, of course, he had not felt the necessity of deception, but I can understand why he sent me on so perilous a journey; at the time we could not know that you would defeat the Boltons so easily.”

“The journey?”

“To retrieve Rickon Stark from the islands of Skagos.”

Stannis’ hands were still on his shoulders and even tightened their grip. It seemed odd, somehow, it was so unlike Stannis to display his emotions so openly.

“Manderly sent you there? How did he know of the boy’s whereabouts?”

“That is a tale better told by himself, I think,” Davos replied.

At last Stannis seemed to realize he was still holding onto Davos and abruptly let go of him. Stannis turned to the side, looking for someone. “Devan,” the king called out. “Come here.”

Only seconds later, Devan’s pale face appeared between the ranks of Stannis’ men. Davos swallowed hard and spread his arms. Devan came and embraced him. His shoulders had broadened, and they were almost of one height. Devan had almost become a man. Davos suppressed the tears that threatened to escape; now was not the time. He gave Devan’s shoulder one last, awkward pat, and sent him off. He was beyond grateful that Stannis had permitted him this short moment, but he needed to pull himself together, and present himself as the king’s hand. 

“Your Grace,” Ser Horpe said. “How are we to know that this boy is really Rickon Stark? We were misled once before.”

“I need no reminder of that,” Stannis said, in his usual tone of annoyance. “Have a look at the direwolf, ser, before you ask that question.”

“It is Rickon,” Jon Snow said in a hoarse voice. He rose to his full height. Davos saw his face for the first time. The young man clearly resembled his father. In White Harbor, Davos had heard of everything that had happened since he had left Eastwatch. He had to admit to being curious about Lord Eddard’s bastard son, who was now the Regent of Winterfell and the king’s most important ally. At the moment, the young men did not look very impressive. He was very pale and swaying slightly on his feet. But Davos knew very well that looks could be deceiving. And Snow spoke self-assuredly and without hesitation. “Rickon was a child when I left Winterfell, but he has Lady Catelyn’s eyes and hair. He looks a lot like Robb did at his age.”

“But it is common knowledge that the turncloak slew Lord Eddard’s sons,” a man Davos did not know said.

“He did not,” Lord Manderly said. He stood between Ser Horpe and Ser Farring, breathing hard, his eyes alight with interest. Davos met his gaze for a moment, and Manderly bestowed a genuine smile upon him. 

“Are we to believe that?” another northman asked. “He had the boys flayed and their heads put on a pike!”

Manderly cleared his throat. “Those boys were not Bran and Rickon Stark.”

“What would you know of that, my lord?”

“Enough,” Stannis said with a voice that could have cut through stone, and the men fell silent. “Lord Brynden. Do you share Lord Stark’s assessment of the boy’s appearance?”

A man emerged from the crowd, wearing a surcoat with the Tully crest, but with a black fish instead of a white one. Davos had met the Blackfish once, years ago. His hair was grey now, no longer red, and he had lost weight, but his shoulders were still broad and strong. 

Lord Brynden looked at Rickon for a moment and nodded. “I do. There can be no doubt, Your Grace, that he is partly a Tully.”

There was, in fact, a striking similarity between the boy and the older man, in the likeness of their jaws and cheek bones, and the shape and color of their eyes.

Rickon had risen again. He was small for a child of his age, which Davos assumed resulted from his long, exhaustive journey, and the lack of food on Skagos. He had been half-starved as Davos found him and Osha in a tiny mountain village. 

Rickon scowled at Stannis. “I _am_ Rickon Stark,” he said. “You could just ask _me_.”

Most men smiled at that, some even chuckled. 

“I beg your pardon, Lord Rickon,” one of them said. “How did you escape your imprisonment at Winterfell?”

“What do you mean?” Rickon asked. “We were no prisoners. Only wards. That’s what _he_ said.” 

He pointed at a man who had been almost invisible between the others, in the margins of the crowd of bystanders. He was haggard, with short-cropped, greyish dark hair and blue eyes. A haunted expression clouded his eyes, and as faces turned toward him and people stared at him, he flinched. Beside him – before him – stood a woman wearing men’s garbs, with short dark hair and a hooked nose, her arms crossed over her breasts.

“Greyjoy,” Stannis said. “Stand before me.”

The man slowly edged forward, cautiously, as if he expected to be attacked any second. Davos frowned. If that was Theon Greyjoy, why was he still alive? 

Greyjoy’s gaze wandered between the king and Rickon Stark, but he did not meet their eyes. He carefully avoided looking at anyone at all, or so Davos thought before Greyjoy looked directly at him. Something like recognition flared in his blue eyes, which Davos found odd. As far as he knew, they had never met.

Then Greyjoy looked away and knelt before Stannis without a word. 

Rickon glared at him. “You were the Prince of Winterfell,” he said. “Bran said we had to hide from you. But you look older, and your hair was black, and not so short. What happened to your feet? You walk funny.”

Greyjoy turned his head to look at the boy. “Someone... cut off parts of them.” His voice was very soft, barely audible.

Rickon scrunched up his nose. “Did that hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” the boy said with a fierce defiance Davos had come to find quite entertaining. “Because it was dark all the time as he had to hide, and there were only those old statues, and it was like they were watching us.”

“The crypts,” Greyjoy whispered. “You hid in the crypts.”

The boy nodded. “We had to, Bran said, so you could not hurt us. I didn’t like it. Shaggy and Summer could not go there, so we had to send them away. Bran slept so much, and then he dreamed of fire and we had to get out. Osha and Bran and Meera took swords from the tombs, and Hodor opened the doors, and the fires had mostly gone out, and there were so many dead people.”

“Bran,” Greyjoy said in a whisper. “Where is he?”

Rickon shrugged. He bit his lip. “I don’t know. Meera and Jojen and him, they went north. They wanted to go to the Wall. To search for a crow with three eyes. Jojen said they had to.”

Although he had heard Rickon’s tale a few times, Davos still did not know what to make of it. Osha had told him of greendreams and greenseers, but the concept seemed peculiar to Davos. Finding Bran had not been his mission – it had been hard enough to find Rickon and escape with him from Skagos. 

“But the bodies,” another man said. “What about those? Where did you take them from, turncloak?”

Greyjoy looked up, and for a moment it seemed as if he would not answer. Then he relented, dropping his gaze. “They were the miller’s boys.”

An unfriendly murmur rose amongst the men.

“The truth, at last,” the king said. “We will have the whole truth from you, Theon Greyjoy, from the beginning to the end. Inside, where all can hear. Lord Snow, take Lord Rickon to the great keep, so the boy may have a hot meal and rest, then return to us; you, too, will want to listen.”

Men flocked into the great hall, regrouping benches and tables until they all could sit and watch the dais. Davos was seated on a bench reserved for the nobles of the highest rank, something that still felt deeply wrong, but then, the crown on Stannis’ head did as well, to a degree.

Stannis sat down on a chair that had been placed before the stone throne with its chiseled direwolves. Jon Snow, who had returned from the great keep, sat down beside the king on another chair. The only difference was that Stannis’ seat was covered with a sheet of cloth-of-gold.

Greyjoy was led in by some of the guards, looking as miserable as he had before, and knelt before the king.

Stannis frowned at him. “The time has come. Tell us everything: why you decided to turn against the Young Wolf, why you took Winterfell, and what happened there.”

Greyjoy looked at the king. It was a strange look, almost pleading, and Davos could not make sense of it. 

“Tell us,” the king repeated.

Greyjoy bowed his head, resigned, and began.

His voice, starting out soft, had a dream-like quality to it. It told the story of a boy who had grown up as a ward and returned to his home as a young man to find it changed. He had been a man of many faults. Greyjoy listed them all, dispassionately, as if he was reciting a long list committed to memory.

Then the young man returned to Winterfell. The parts that followed were hard to bear. Davos found it hard to bear, as did most of the north men in the hall. Stannis had to bid them silence more than once. His guards had to cast out two men who could not rein in their temper. A couple of others were restrained by their own peers. 

Then the young man reached the mill, and Bran and Rickon were not there, but two little boys of the same age. Greyjoy stopped, his face pale.

“Who killed them?” Stannis asked. 

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Their heads. He said we needed them.”

“ _’He’_?”

Greyjoy fell silent altogether, hunched in himself. 

“Your Grace,” Manderly said. “If I may intervene...”

“You may not,” Stannis said icily. “I will have the answer from Greyjoy and no one else.” 

“Answer me,” he demanded of Greyjoy.

“He. Reek. Ramsay. I didn’t know who he was back then. When I took Winterfell, he was a prisoner in the dungeons. He said his name was Reek. But that was wrong, he was Ramsay. The Bastard of Bolton.” 

“Did he not tell you?”

“No. But he swore obedience to me.”

“And at the mill?”

“He said I had to kill them, or everything would fall to pieces. He was right.”

“Did you do it?”

“I... I intended to.”

“Did you?”

“I drew my sword. But I... I did not strike the blow.”

“Who did it, then?”

“Ramsay. He had already killed her... the miller’s wife. Struck her down on the doorstep. He came in and saw me, how I stood there hesitating, He said we had already gone the half way, there was no use in turning back, and that he could do the rest, I needed only say so. And I... I told him yes. He did it. Then he skinned them, so no one would see.”

“What happened after?”

“We went back to Winterfell, and told anyone they were Bran and Rickon. Three of my men knew the truth. Ramsay killed them as well.”

And so the tale went on. The longer the turncloak spoke, the better Davos understood him, and the more compassion he felt. Greyjoy had done terrible things, caught in a fatal downward spiral where one decision led to another, and the pace got faster and faster. 

Davos had though it would end with the sack of Winterfell, but Stannis offered no reprieve. 

“Go one. Tell us everything.”

“No,” Greyjoy whispered. 

“I command it.”

And so it happened. The parts that followed were worse. Greyjoy’s soft voice became a whisper, and his narration had gapes and holes. Only the king’s repeated orders made him go on. It seemed painful and torturous beyond reason, and Davos wished it would stop. Judging from the way some of the men averted their eyes to look at the floor, he was not the only one. A few men – boys, most of them – even left the hall altogether. No one said a word about it.  
.  
In the end Greyjoy was shaking badly. He looked like an old man, scared and fragile and so very, very pale. 

“That... that was the last time I saw Ramsay before... before... we escaped,” he said.

Jon Snow rose to his feet. He stepped up to Greyjoy and put a hand on his shoulder. “I think we have heard enough,” he said, not in a defiant manner, but stating it as a fact with only a hint of a question. “Your Grace?” He looked at Stannis, and a glance passed between them. 

Stannis nodded with grim satisfaction. “You are right, Lord Snow.” He cast a dark look at the crowd. “Do you agree, my lords?” 

There were whispers, and murmurs and, at last, a solemn consent.

Stannis stood. “Rise, all of you.”

Greyjoy slowly got to his feet as well. It took visible effort.

“Theon, Head of House Grejoy, Lord of Pyke,” Stannis addressed him formally. “I, Stannis Baratheon, King of Westeros, acquit you of the charge of murdering Lord Brandon Stark and Lord Rickon Stark, and of the charge of setting afire the castle of Winterfell.

“I find you guilty of treason, as you followed a usurper who conspired against his rightful king. As Balon Greyoy’s bannerman you raided the Stony Shore and seized Winterfell. Treason, as every lord must know, is punished with death: that is the law.”

“Since my brother’s demise, Westeros has suffered greatly. Many lords are guilty of the same crime; they followed a false king and brought war to the realm without a care for the common folk. If I were to slay them all, the bloodshed would know no end. While justice would be served, no peace would come to my realm. So instead I offered pardon to all those who laid down their arms and swore obedience to me. I would offer you the same; but your crimes are of a particularly severe nature. 

“By your own account, you slaughtered innocent men and children who had no means to defend themselves. You mistreated those under your rule. Those crimes cannot be denied, or palliated, and for these alone, you earned the block. 

“Yet you greatly suffered at the hands of Ramsay Snow, also called the Bastard of Bolton, and endured torture the likes of which few men are subjected to in their lives. You also saved Lord Snow’s life just yesterday, proving that you are no longer an enemy to the people of the North. For those reasons, I will spare your life in an act of mercy.

“As a lord of the realm, you were obliged to protect its people, but you failed in that and forfeited your birthright. Therefore I strip you of your lands and rank. You remain Theon Greyjoy, but you are no longer a lord of Pyke.”

~~~~~

Davos was summoned to the king after noon. Devan brought him to the solar on the first floor of the great keep, talking the whole time, visibly proud that he could provide Davos with tidbits of information and astonishingly mature insights. They had parted ways the day Stannis left Eastwatch, heading for Castle Black. In the short time since his arrival, Davos had learned as much as he could about the recent events. Still he felt woefully uninformed, which did not become the king’s hand. He wished he had found time to talk to Lord Manderly as well as Lord Snow, but of course it was much more important to answer the king’s call and talk to Stannis. 

Davos knelt as was admitted before the king. “Your Grace.”

“Rise, my onion lord,” Stannis said, and offered him a hand. He squeezed Davos’ fingers tightly as he pulled him to his feet. “I will admit that I have missed you greatly. Your counsel has always been of great value to me, and I have been bereft of it for far too long.”

“Your Grace has many counselors who can offer advice just as good as mine.”

Stannis snorted. “None so honest, or so loyal. It is not only that, Lord Davos. I missed a trusted friend as well, and your loss hurt me more than I can say.”

Davos was stunned into speechlessness. He felt his eyes go moist, and blinked, angry at himself. “I am so very sorry, Your Grace. I would have returned to you, had there been any possibility, but I wished not to return to you only with word of my failure.”

“You need not apologize,” Stannis said. He turned around, pouring wine, and Davos could not see his face. “I believed I had sent you to your death, and regretted it dearly. You had no choice but to oblige the Fat Lord; worry not about that.”

Davos got the impression that Stannis wanted to avoid looking at him for the same reason Davos was glad Stannis had turned his back to him. Neither of them were comfortable with the acknowledgment of their unusual friendship. 

“I heard you sent the Lady Melisandre away,” Davos heard himself say. It was the first subject that came to his mind, and one that he felt the urgent need to discuss. 

Stannis snorted. “I did. I wish I had listened to you all along. I do not doubt that she will attempt to regain my favor. And who knows, before long, we may have need of her powers again. Yet I will not tolerate her presence in my court, nor listen to her advice the way I did before, blinded by the promise of power.”

“What do the queen’s men think about that?”

“There is no queen. They are _my_ men now; they have no other choice.”

Davos wanted to strangle himself. “I apologize again, Your Grace, that remark was inappropriate, and thoughtless of me. I wish to offer my sincerest condolences on Queen Selyse’s passing. You must still grieve for her...”

“My daughter grieves. There is no need to pretend, Lord Davos. I never loved Selyse, I barely tolerated her.”

“Yet...”

Stannis offered him a goblet of wine. Davos took it with his right hand, and their fingers touched briefly over the rim. 

The king grimaced. “It was your alleged death that opened my eyes to Lady Melisandre’s true nature. One occurrence of many, but the last straw, you might say, to make me realize that while I wished for the power to win the Iron Throne, I did not wish to become a puppet in her hands. Too late, I am afraid, for Maester Cressen. Too late for Renly. I know now that what I dreamed the night of his death became truth. I said to you that my hands were clean, but the taint goes even deeper than that.”

Davos did not know what to say. He did not think Stannis expected any consolation from him, or would appreciate the attempt to give it. 

“For what it is worth, Your Grace, I think Renly’s death was inevitable. He would not have yielded to you.”

“I wished he had. I wanted to spare his life. I loved him.” Stannis spoke with utter calm, which only made his words more devastating. “I remembered, recently, how he clung to me in the days of the siege at Storm’s End. But the day Eddard Stark freed us, Renly went out and searched amongst his men for Robert. _I_ had been the one to keep him safe, had endured hunger and pain and held out when it would have been so much easier to surrender. Yet it was Robert who mattered to him, only ever Robert.”

Bitterness and pain, laid bare. Davos shook his head. “He was a foolish boy. The men had told him that Robert had gone to fight the Mad King. Fighting always seems more exciting to the little ones.”

Stannis did not reply to that. Instead he offered Davos a chair with a silent gesture, and went to the window to look outside. 

“You may have wondered what happened today upon your return. Why I went to such lengths to hear the turncloak out, instead of taking off his head, as I should have done when he arrived at my camp in the days before the battle.”

“I wondered, Your Grace, but I am sure there is a reason for it,” Davos replied.

“The reason,” Stannis said, “Is that I bed him.”

For a moment, Davos thought he had heard that wrong. 

Had Stannis... did Stannis...

But the king took all possibility of a doubt away by saying, with a casual rudeness: “I decided to spare his life so I could bugger him.”

Davos sat down his goblet. He stared at Stannis, trying to gather his thoughts, and failing. “Your Grace – I don’t understand.” 

“How could you? I always hid it from you, Lord Davos, from you and the rest of the world and, most of the time, even from myself.”

“That you...”

“Yes.”

Davos met Stannis’ gaze. “I see.”

“Do you?” Stannis asked. “Does it disgust you?”

The ground he was treading on, Davos thought, was so very treacherous. “May I speak frankly, sire?”

Something twitched at Stannis’ jaw. “Pray do.”

“I often wondered,” Davos admitted. “You seemed so... indifferent toward your lady wife. And there were times when I thought...” he interrupted himself and scratched his beard, embarrassed, and avoided the king’s gaze. 

“When you thought?” Stannis prompted. He did not appear angry, but his tone left no doubt that he expected an answer.

Davos sighed. “As I said, I wondered. At times, when you were maybe not even aware... I saw you looking at men in a way that made me suspect there might be more to it.” He did not say, _I saw you looking at me._ That was a preposterous thing to assume, let alone to say out loud, even though Davos was, by now, convinced he had been right.

“And it does not matter to you?”

Davos shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I have known enough men in my life who shared the same preference, and I only ever felt regret that they had to hide their true nature, and were shunned if the truth was found out.”

“The Seven are said to disapprove.”

“I like to think they are better than that.”

“The priests of R’hllor, as it turns out, despise men like me.”

“One more reason not to listen to them too closely,” Davos said before he could stop himself, and was rewarded with a short laugh.

“Guard your tongue, Lord Davos. I am still a follower of the Lord of Light, and soon enough we will have another priest at my court. However, I am surprised to find your mind set on this topic, and to hear you express yourself so strongly.”

“I only wish...” Davos hesitated. “I wish for your happiness, Your Grace. One cannot choose who one loves.”

“Love is an ill-advised emotion altogether, inconvenient at best and downright disastrous at worst.”

Davos had to smile. “So it would seem. And yet... I love my wife dearly. I always wished for you to find equal happiness in your marriage, even when I permitted myself the thought that it might not be possible, for the reasons we just explored. If you find love elsewhere...”

“Affection was not what made me take the turncloak to my bed.”

Davos considered his next answer carefully. _Do I dare ask?_ “I assumed as much. Why _did_ you do it?”

Stannis did not reply for a moment, then he turned toward Davos, an expression on his face that Davos had never seen before. “You were lost to me, Lord Davos, and the knowledge ate away at me. I wish I could say I was not in my right mind, but I will not lie to you. I did it out of spite, in a way. I had never dared to give in to my desires before, for fear what people might say. I started to wonder, why did it matter to me? Who were they to judge me for something that was seen as a prowess in Robert? Greyjoy, though... he was only an opportunity that presented itself. I had planned to execute him, but when the thought came to my mind...” 

Davos understood. “Yet... you made him confess today for a reason. Why?”

Stannis’ hand clenched around the edge of the window-sill. “I wish I knew. Maybe I have become love’s fool after all. No, I think not, but... I saw myself indebted to him, in a way. The northerners would not stop to demand I take his life, and this was the only way to put a stop to it.”

“I hope Your Grace knows that I would not judge you, if you were to care for someone who has suffered such a cruel fate. There is justice, and there is mercy, and I know you capable of both.”

“You are the only one, it seems. I have not often shown mercy in the past. Especially not to you.”

He did not need to point at Davos’ mutilated hand to explain the meaning of his words.

“That was a mercy as well, Your Grace, or at least that is how I perceived it. You knighted me, and took off my fingertips. Another lord would have given me a bag of coins and taken my whole hand.”

“A poor reward for the service you provided.”

“Yes, but still a just one, in a way. However, that is neither here nor there. The turncloak has done terrible things, and he has suffered in terrible ways. I was a smuggler, lowly born, a liar. You took me from that life and gave me another one, a possibility to redeem myself. Why should it be so different with Greyjoy? And, Your Grace – I shall like to think that you came to care for me, at least a little. Why would you deny yourself to care for him?”

“I care for you more than a little,” Stannis said. “Love’s fool after all.”

Davos bowed his head. For a moment, he could not speak. Yes, he had suspected, but this... “Your Grace...”

“You need not say anything. It is strange, but I feel the need lately to speak the truth more often.” Stannis shook his head. “I wish not to embarrass you, Lord Davos.”

“It is not that,” Davos said. “I wish I could find a better way to phrase this, Your Grace, but... I am deeply honored, and humbled, by your words. And dare I say it? I know it is not the same, exactly, but there mere sentiment is one I share, and count myself lucky to serve you, to stand at your side although I have certainly not deserved it.”

“You do not desire men.”

“No, Your Grace, but if the opposite were true... Even so. I was glad, in the past, that you never spoke to me about it. I am your man, body and soul, and whatever is in my power to give, it is yours.”

“If you imply what I think you do...”

“I am afraid so, Your Grace.”

Stannis stared at him, and it was all in the open: longing, and sadness, and something bitter as well. Mostly, though, there was a wistfulness that made Davos’ heart ache. “Then I am glad as well. I would have been tempted to take what you offered, and your loyalty is of greater value to me than anything else. I wish not want to endanger that.”

Davos took a deep breath. Their conversation felt surreal to him. That Stannis, who had always kept his distance, and never crossed the boundaries set by their difference in rank, decided to throw all that overboard, seemed wrong in more ways than one. What had happened, in the months he had been gone, to make the king act and talk so unlike himself? 

“I would never abandon you, or your cause,” Davos heard himself say. “I am your man, until the very end.”

Stannis nodded, once, and Davos saw him swallow, the only sign of his inner turmoil. 

Davos found his words woefully inadequate. How could he address the topic at hand? But maybe the direct approach would not be too bold, this time, after what they had just discussed.

“May I add one more thing?” he asked softly.

“You may,” Stannis replied in a voice just as quiet. 

“I think, Your Grace, that you ought not be ashamed of your desires, even if the priests tell you otherwise. And you ought to permit yourself to feel affection for a man, if he is worthy of it, regardless of other people’s opinion.”

Stannis clenched his teeth. “If you are speaking of the turncloak...”

“I have to admit that I said it with him in mind, yes.”

“There is not much affection between us. Little on my side, less on his.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

“Nothing,” Stannis said. “He is free to go wherever he likes.”

“What if he wished to stay? As your... ”

“My salt boy?” the king asked with a raised eyebrow. 

When Davos stared at him in confusion, Stannis sighed. “Never mind that. Only a jest, one that you would not find amusing in the least.”

“A jest?”

“I am capable of making those, from time to time.”

Davos had to hide a smile. “If you say so, Your Grace. What would you do, if he wished to remain at your side?”

Stannis’ lips thinned. “I feel no need to consider the possibility. He is a man grown, and there are little things as shameful as those I did to him. Will you let it rest now? I have answered all your questions so far, and I wish no further mention of it.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Davos bowed his head. He still wondered; what had Stannis done that warranted such a harsh judgment in his own mind? Had he truly forced himself on an unwilling man? And if so, why? Stannis was often unrelenting, even ruthless, but Davos had not thought him capable of a deliberate cruelty. Had the war changed him so much? 

What had happened between the king and Greyjoy? Davos felt unable to fully grasp the implication. Stannis’ words had been rather precise. _I decided to spare his life so I could bugger him._ That left little room for doubt, and yet Davos could not picture it, did not want to.

Which man had Theon Greyjoy gotten to see: the callous king, who demanded obedience and was a foreigner to weakness or forbearance, or the man that Stannis truly was, who was fiercely determined to do the right thing, and fiercely loyal to those he held dear? 

The king care for Greyjoy, of that Davos had no doubt. What had happened in the great hall upon their arrival, had, for all intents and purposes, been a trial. Stannis had gone to great lengths to give him the opportunity to redeem himself, in front of men who wanted nothing more than to see him punished. 

_Stannis must have seen something in him that he considered worth the effort. I wonder, will he come to regret his decision? Will Greyjoy see the trial as the gift it was, or has Stannis wronged him so deeply that he will only bear him ill will?_

Stannis had made it very clear that he did not wish to talk about it. Much as Davos wished he could respect the king’s wishes, he already knew that he would not be able let the matter rest.


	30. Theon XIII

Asha cleared her throat. “You should eat something.”

It was the first thing she had said in a while. For once she had made no jests, had not offered any unwelcome advice.

She had sat with Theon, unmoving, hidden away in his alcove where she had led him after leaving the great hall. Theon barely recalled making their way back here, could not estimate how much time had passed. When the fear and madness finally subsided, he felt hollow and weary. 

His mind recoiled from what had happened in the great hall. He felt Reek lurking in the back of his mind. But Theon wanted nothing to do with Reek, not anymore, and now, hours later, as he came slowly out of the daze, he felt disgusted with himself. 

He was so pathetically weak. And now everyone knew it. Knew what he had done, and how Ramsay had broken him. Stannis had made him tell it all, everything Theon had kept inside to never tell a living soul. He cringed again at the thought, wishing he could turn back time, run away before he ever spoke a single word, consequences be damned. The price seemed too high, even for the pardon the king had granted him. And what did that even mean? Was Stannis expecting him to take the black now? 

“Theon,” Asha’s voice cut through the confusion that still clouded his thoughts. “It is time to get up. Get something to eat.”

She had been so patient, fetching water for him, staying at his side with her hand on his shoulder for hours. She was not an especially caring person by nature. That she had been here so long was a miracle, and Theon could not blame her for wanting to leave. But he had no wish to accompany her, and the thought of eating made him queasy. 

“You can go, you know. I am fine by myself. In case you are worried.” She had earned some honesty from him. “I will hide here for a little longer, if is all the same with you.” 

She looked at him as if she wanted to argue, but after a moment she shrugged and got to her feet, wincing as she stretched her long limbs. 

“You are the Lady of Pyke now,” Theon said. He did not even know why.

She stiffened, turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “When we sailed north on father’s orders, I wanted to see you fail. I wanted him to see that you were not a worthy heir, I wanted him to choose me.”

“You got your wish.”

“I never wished for _this,_ ” she said. 

Theon knew what she meant and nodded. 

“I remember the day Rodrik gave you your first blade. A dagger, taken as a prize from a Braavosi merchant who lost to him at finger dance. I remember the day you made my nose bleed when we fought in the yard, and how proud Maron was of you, how he told me that boys would always be better fighters than girls.”

Theon smiled. “You threw a stone at him.” 

“And I hit him. He even bled from the wound. In the evening, Uncle Aeron took me aside behind a pillar in the great hall and told me that a woman from the iron islands should not hurl rocks at anyone. He gave me a throwing axe instead.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I remember the day father bent his head before Robert Baratheon in the great hall, right before the seastone chair. Stannis was there as well. I don’t know if you saw him, or knew who he was at the time. During the negotiations, father suggested sending you to Dragonstone as Stannis’ ward, but it was decided that you should go with Lord Eddard.”

“Really?” Theon asked. He had never thought about it. When he tried to recall the day of his father’s defeat, it was a haze of faces, tears, and his mother’s cries of sorrow when they took her youngest son from her after the war had already taken two. 

“Yes. You should ask him, he might remember it as well.”

When Theon did not say anything, she shrugged. “I also remember the day your first letter arrived from Winterfell. Father read it in silence, then cast it aside in anger, spat and left. I picked the letter up when he was gone. I read it, then put it in the chest beside my bed. It might still be there, back at Pyke.” 

Asha cleared her throat. “ And of course, I will never forget the day we met again in Lordsport.”

Theon snorted weakly. “That was... disgusting.”

Her smile was unexpected, sharp and wicked. “But fun.”

Theon grinned back, helplessly. “Yes.”

“The point is...” the smile disappeared from her face, and she looked at him with something akin to fondness. “I remember everything about you. You were, and will always be, my little brother. You were, and will always be, ironborn. You rose again, Theon, and stronger for it. You only need to remember that as well.”

He stared at her. She rolled her eyes.

“I will bring you some more water, and bread,” she announced, leaving him no opportunity to object before she strode out of the alcove. Theon listened to her walking along the corridor, until the sound of her footsteps subsided.

He understood what Asha had tried to tell him, but he doubted that she was right. No ironborn let himself be defeated the way Theon had. 

What would happen to him now? It was all a tangled web in his mind, and it refused to make sense. Stannis, Jon – Rickon. Davos Seaworth the famous smuggler become a lord. What did it all mean? 

The day had started well. Cozy and sleepy between blankets with the heat of Jon’s warm body, sharing a few, lazy kisses, without intent, without the urgency that had been part of their previous encounters. Theon did not know why Jon did not object, why he seemed to want it as much as Theon did, but he hadn’t asked. It had been enough that Jon did. 

Until the maester interrupted them to look after Jon, the outside world invading Jon’s sleeping chamber. Theon left, Jon’s scent of sweat and sleep and the maester’s healing salve still in his nose. 

Theon heard footsteps again, but they were too heavy and slow to be Asha’s. Ser Harys came in sight, halting in front of the archway that separated the alcove from the corridor. He spotted Theon and his brow furrowed. “Greyjoy. The king sent for you.”

“Whatever for?” Theon murmured.

Ser Harys did not reply, only looked at him until he rose to his feet. 

“Fine. Where is he?”

“The solar.”

Theon nodded and limped into the hallway. Cobb stayed behind, and Theon felt the knight’s gaze on his back as he walked away from him.

Theon had a lot of experience ignoring the contemptuous looks and hateful glares that followed his every move. But it was much worse today. Literally everyone’s eyes were on him as he made his way to the great keep. He avoided their gazes, shying away from prying eyes, walking as fast as he could, for once not caring in the slightest about how ridiculous he looked. 

The king was already waiting for him. For maybe the first time since their first meeting Stannis stood up from behind his desk immediately upon Theon’s arrival and strode toward him with three wide steps. 

Theon froze on the spot. “Your Grace.”

“Greyjoy.” 

Stannis said nothing more, and Theon, out of his depth, waited for an order, or an explanation. None came. He broke the silence himself a few moments later. “Why did you do it? Why did you make me...”

“Make you tell what you had suffered at the hands of Ramsay Snow?”

Theon nodded, looking away from the king’s eyes. What Stannis had done felt like betrayal of sorts. Stannis owed him nothing, and yet... there had been an agreement between them, or so Theon had thought. 

“If you do not know that, you are a greater fool than I deemed possible.” 

That was unusually harsh, even for Stannis. Theon swallowed.

“To humiliate me? To make them see how weak I truly am?”

“I believed you capable of an accurate judgment of the situation, but clearly I was wrong if you mistake what I did for an attempt to humiliate you. Consider this: the fact alone that Brandon and Rickon Stark are alive – or one of them, at least – would not have convinced the lords that you are deserving of mercy.”

“No, I know that...”

“The only way – the only way to make them see reason in their thirst for vengeance was to make them truly _understand_. And it was not, in fact, I who did that, but your own words in your own voice. They would not have believed anyone else, but they saw in your face that you spoke the truth. That, and only that, is the reason I made you confess, so that they would learn the whole truth and leave you be after.”

Theon shook his head. “Why would that matter to you?”

Stannis stared at him as if he did not believe Theon had asked that question. “I gave you my word. Do you think I would set you free only to see you killed by a petty lord who wished for vengeance?”

“Set me free?” Theon asked. 

“I promised that I would pardon you if one or both of the boys were found alive. I keep my promises. You are free of any obligation to me.”

 _Just like that,_ Theon thought, _just like that?_ “Am I to take the black?”

“If you wish. I make no demands of you.”

“And if I do not wish to?”

Stannis shrugged. “As I said, it is your choice to make, and yours alone.”

“But... what should I do now? Where else should I go?” Theon’s mind was reeling. It was so hard to believe, he had been a prisoner for so long, with little to no hope of gaining his freedom, and he had not allowed himself to think of a future where he might no longer be. 

The king turned around. “You may go wherever you wish. It is no concern of mine.”

Theon stared at him. It was truly over, he realized, their agreement had come to a conclusion, one he had never truly let himself consider. He had not expected to see Bran or Rickon again – chances of their survival had been so small, after all, with the winter storms and the ongoing war – and he head not believed the king would keep a promise given to a traitor. 

_It is no concern of mine._ The words finally began to sink in. Stannis was done with him, he did not care what Theon did. _He wants to get rid of me. He has Jon now. And not only that. The king’s hand has returned. The man whose judgment means so much to him. The man whose name he called out in the throes of passion._

No, of course Stannis would not keep a traitor at his side, in his bed any longer. Theon had only been a hole to use, convenient because the king did not need to fear repercussions. Theon had no family that could voice protests against the way Stannis treated his male whore. No family other than Asha, but she was the king’s prisoner as well, and had no say in anything. 

The northerners could not have cared less about the fact that the king was bedding a man. That Theon still had his head on his shoulders, on the other hand, had not sat well with them, but if it had presented a problem to Stannis, well, it would have been easily solved by sending Theon to the Wall or executing him after all. 

Stannis had taken Theon to bed as he believed Davos Seaworth dead. What reason did he have to do it now that the onion lord was back at his side? Stannis would not want to lower himself in the opinion of a man he cared so much about. He had debased himself for a while, but in times of war and winter, no one would blame him for it. 

_It is no concern of mine._

_No, of course not._ Why did it feel like a punch to the gut, one that made it hard to breathe and made him want to throw up? 

They had reached an understanding of a kind, in the days and weeks before Reed’s and Tully’s arrival, and Theon had almost believed... 

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought, trying to repress it, but it was no use, the words came back to him in Asha’s knowing voice. _Maybe you have become too fond of him._

“It was a mistake from the beginning,” Stannis said, as if he had read Theon’s mind, and Theon flinched, because hearing the king say it was worse. He wished Stannis would stop; there was no need to draw this out. 

“I should never have done what I did. I regret it. But you are free, and your life is yours. While you might consider the price you paid too high, at least the bargain is over now.”

 _The bargain is over._ The king had bargained for one thing, and if Theon had, inadvertently and without realizing it, given more – it was his own fault. 

“You may leave,” Stannis said. 

That he would not send for Theon again went unsaid.


	31. Jon IX

Before the war, Jon had not spent as much time with Rickon as with Bran and Arya. When Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell, Rickon had just begun to play in the yards instead of staying inside with Lady Stark and his nurse. He had always had a fierce temper, though, and that had not changed. He resembled Robb in that respect. But the long journey had taught him to bow to the inevitable, a lesson that had taken Robb years to learn. Rickon was canny and more alert than a six year old boy had any right to be. No parent’s patient guidance could have taught him that, Jon thought a little sadly, only the necessity of staying alive in the wilderness. 

Osha, the wildling woman, was no nurse. She was his protector, a spearwife, fierce and protective of him, with all the virtues and flaws of her kind. While some lords had already suggested removing her from Rickon’s presence, Jon had no intention to do so. Without even trying to voice a protest, Jon instructed the servants to put up a cot for her in Rickon’s room, as she had demanded. 

Osha took one look at him and scrunched up her nose. “Once a crow, always a crow,” she said with a significant glance at his black garb. 

Jon almost laughed at that. “It is as good a color as any,” he said. “Do you have need of anything? Clothes, weapons, armor? Coins?”

She stared at him, assessing, and weighed her words. “I would like a new spear, and a good knife. Some furs for my cot.”

“Of course. I have no steward as of yet, but Talin, my squire, will see to it. Rickon will need his own guardsmen as well. Will you choose them from my men, and let them help you ensure his safety?”

“Will they take orders from me?”

“They will, or there will be no place for them in Winterfell.”

She nodded. To his surprise she turned around and went to the place where she had put down her travel gear. She pulled a sword from a sheath made of soft leather and offered it to him, hilt first. “You will want this back, m’lord Crow. We took them from the crypts. This one had been made for your father’s tomb.”

Jon carefully took the sword from her hands. “I thank you. I will return it there so his ghost may find rest.”

They sat down and had a meal together – plain bread and butter and a few slices of roasted pork. Jon could not each much. His throat still hurt, but that was not the only reason. The last days had brought so many revelations – it had only been two days since Howland Reed had told him about his parents. Two day since Jon had told Stannis, since he and Stannis had... and the next evening, Jon had been poisoned. Now Rickon had returned. Rickon, who was his cousin, and the heir of Winterfell until Bran returned. For the first time, Jon had true hope that Bran _would_ return. If Rickon had survived on the island of Skagos amongst the stoneborn, surely Bran could survive beyond the Wall, too, with Hodor and Reed’s children to protect him.

Jon realized he needed to speak to Reed, tell him his children might still be alive. Or did he already know? Rickon and Osha had told him of Jojen’s unusual gift. Maybe Howland Reed, too, had dreams that told him about the future. 

That made it even more urgent that he talk to the crannogman. 

Jon wanted to hear more about Lady Lyanna as well, but that would have to wait until they had more time. 

There were others amongst Winterfell’s bannermen who might remember her. Jon could not inquire after her outright, it would appear too suspicious. But maybe, if he asked them about Lord Eddard as a child, he might be able to steer them in the right direction, mention his siblings... A subterfuge, necessary, but it left a bad taste in his mouth. 

Still, learning about Lady Lyanna could not be Jon’s priority right now. He had things to do, plans to make. He needed to talk to Wyman Manderly, and to Lord Davos. And, of course, to Stannis. He had not been alone with the king since the day in the solar, where Stannis had... 

Jon swallowed, coughed a little, and felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He could not think about it in the light of day without embarrassment. That, and awe as well, and he could not pretend his stomach was not fluttering a little. 

Jon took a sip of water. He tried to focus on Rickon’s vivid description of a waterfall they had seen on Skagos, while Osha sat in her chair, watching him from the side. He had not added much to the conversation, and had used his sore throat as an excuse. In truth he was in a strange state of mind, elated, relieved and exhausted at the same time, and he did not know what to say. 

There were so many things to do, and time ran short. Stannis would soon head for the Wall, to claim the Nightfort. If Jon wanted to avoid bloodshed between the black brothers and the king, keeping Stannis from doing something rash, he would have to go with him. But the thought of leaving Rickon behind, so shortly after his return, was unbearable. Jon was the only blood kin Rickon had. _And I am the only one who can teach him what it means to be a Stark of Winterfell. There is no one left; it is only I who can show him what he needs to know._ That was his duty now, that, and uniting the North, including the Night’s Watch and the free folk, if he could succeed in it, and tying Winterfell so closely to the rightful king that no one could shatter their alliance. _I am the only one who can do that. Other men may lead the Night’s Watch. But I am the only one who can hold the North together, as one stronghold against any threat._

They finished their meal. After, when Rickon was drowsy and yawning and due a hot bath, Jon excused himself. He left the solar, taking Ghost with him, who was very reluctant to leave Shaggydog. 

_I need to see the king, and call in a meeting of Winterfell’s bannermen, to ensure they will pledge their oaths to Rickon. And then..._

But there was something else he needed to do first. 

~~~~~

Finding Theon was not as difficult as Jon had thought. After a little encouragement, Ghost led him into the godswood. Jon halted at the iron doors. “Stay here,” he told his guards. “Ghost is with me, and I want to be alone for a while.” 

While they did not approve, they respected his orders, and stayed behind while Jon followed Ghost down the path that led to the heart tree. He saw Theon from a great distance, a hooded, dark-clad figure that stood out between the white and grey of the snow and leafless trees. Theon knelt before the pond in silence. Approaching from behind him, Jon could not see his face. Ghost ran ahead, startling Theon by nudging his side. 

Theon cursed softly and braced himself on the ground with one hand as Ghost’s nudging became more insistent. He obliged the direwolf at last, scratching him behind one ear. Ghost exhaled in a huff and lay down beside Theon, his tail thumping on the snowy ground. 

Theon looked up and met Jon’s eyes. Then he stared down again at his own hand and shook his head. “When did he become such a hussy?”

Jon smiled. “He has taken a liking to you.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

Jon had a good guess, but refrained from telling Theon, and instead crouched down next to them to pet Ghost’s back. 

“What do you want from me?” Theon asked after a moment. It was not a particularly friendly question, closed-off and somber. 

“I wanted to know how you were. What happened today was hard to bear...”

“Of course,” Theon muttered, and there was a hint of anger in his voice. “I am fine.”

“What are you going to do now? Will Stannis let you go?” Jon asked. It had bothered him to know that Stannis was forcing Theon to share his bed, still bothered him in more ways than he liked to admit.

“He already did,” Theon said, and Jon could not read him at all in that moment. 

“That’s... good, I should think?” Jon tried. 

Theon made a weird sound in his throat. “One should think so, yes.”

“You are free. What are you going to do?”

“I wish I knew.”

For whatever reason, Jon’s throat felt more constricted than before as he said, “You could stay here. Rickon says you are welcome at Winterfell.”

“Does he, now.” A mild disbelief, if anything. 

“Yes. And I do as well.”

“Convenient,” Theon said. “As I have nowhere else to go. What do you want from me in return?”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

“Do you want me as your whore as well?”

Jon flinched. “What?”

Theon shrugged. His hand on Ghost’s fur stilled, clenched into a fist before it fell lax. 

“No. No, Theon – why would you think that?” Jon recognized his own feelings as shock, anger, real offense that Theon believed him capable of that. 

“You had a taste,” Theon said. “Not the most pleasant one, seeing as I am nothing more than a whore, but still... You could keep me close the way the king did. Call for me when you felt the urge to fuck a warm body.”

Jon felt disgusted and slightly sick. “What is wrong with you? Why are you saying these things? You know that it is not like that.”

“Do I?”

“How can you believe – after all that happened – do you think I am looking to punish you? Have I given you any cause to think so poorly of me?” Jon asked incredulously, shaking his head. “Things have changed between us – as we have changed.”

“Because we shared a few kisses after a fight?” Theon asked. His face had contorted, somehow, wearing an expression Jon knew well but had not seen since his return to Winterfell. Scorn, and arrogance, as if the old Theon was making an appearance. Jon did not like it at all.

“It happens all the time,” Theon said. “Violence, lust of battle. Nothing else.”

“We shared more than that,” Jon replied. “In the crypts...”

“Don’t fool yourself, Snow. It happened because I was there when you were grieving. And maybe because you were curious how it would feel to be with a man.”

Jon tried to keep his hands from clenching into fists. “That is not true.” He rose to his feet again, glaring down at Theon. 

“Oh? Should I assume you had been harboring a secret desire for me? Admit it, Snow, you never once thought of bedding a man, not before you learned from me that Stannis bedded _me_. You do not want me, no more than...” Theon fell silent, and Jon saw his throat move, swallowing down whatever he had wanted to say.

Jon shook his head again. Theon was trying to dismiss what had happened between them, but Jon would not let him deny the truth. “You saved my life. You _shared my bed_.”

“Saving your life was in my best interest,” Theon said. “It turned out well; the king pardoned me after all, did he not? And I only stayed with you because the maester told me to. He said not to leave you alone.”

Theon’s voice was so calm, so reasonable that Jon found it hard not to believe him. Was he telling the truth after all? 

Jon recalled how they had woken this very morning, side by side, and how they had been well on their way to do more than just kiss when Maester Pylos knocked on the door. Jon had wanted Theon, and he would swear before the heart tree that Theon had instigated the touch. _I refuse to believe he did not want that as much as I did._

Theon rose to his feet with obvious effort. “Do not pretend it was anything but convenience. That, and curiosity, and maybe even pity on your part, Snow.”

“Pity? No,” Jon said. “Theon – why are you refusing to believe me? Will you not listen to me?”

“Tell me the truth, Snow. When you went to Stannis, after the crypts. What happened between you and him? Did he fuck you?”

The sudden change of topic, the unexpected attack from another angle, made Jon’s head spin. “What? Why would you – what does that have to do with...”

“Did he? Did you bend over for him?”

Jon was blushing and knew that Theon saw it too. “You were the one who told me to go to him.”

Theon had successfully turned the tables, and Jon felt as if he were defending himself. 

“So I did. But that was not the question. Tell me, Snow, I think I deserve as much. Did he bed you?”

“Not... not quite,” Jon managed to say. “Not the way you... I didn’t...” 

_Can you still not say the words?_ Theon had challenged him, not so long ago. “He did not fuck me. I would have let him, but...”

“What did he do to you?” Theon asked softly. “What did he do?”

“He... used his mouth on me.”

Theon flinched. A moment later, he straightened himself and his face smoothed out, the expression carefully blank. “I see.”

Jon wished he knew what that meant. “Theon. Will you please listen to me? I don’t know what all this is about. But you should know that you are welcome to stay.”

Theon was quiet. Moments passed in silence, and Theon avoided looking at Jon. 

“Let us be honest, Snow,” he finally said. “We never liked each other, we barely tolerated each other on good days. You have nothing to gain by keeping me here.”

“I do, actually, and not the way you were implying before,” Jon said. 

A part of him wanted to insist, to make Theon see and acknowledge that what they had done meant more than physical relief or curiosity, but he was not sure how. What else could he say? Theon seemed to be set on disregarding anything Jon said. 

And then there was Stannis... _How can I explain to Theon what really happened between Stannis and I, and what it means, if I don’t even understand it myself?_

Theon’s reaction to his admission had been disconcerting. Jon could not say whether he had been shocked or disgusted or something else entirely. Jealous? But why? He knew it would be useless to press for the truth at the moment. Maybe when everyhing had settled, when Theon had come to terms with this day’s events, he could ask. Maybe once Jon knew where he stood with Stannis. 

Jon took a deep breath, focusing on a – hopefully – less precarious topic. “I have need of a steward.”

Theon’s eyes widened.

Jon smiled although it felt strained. “What do you say?”

“You want me as Winterfell’s steward?” Theon asked flatly. “Have you lost any common sense, Snow?”

“It is a reasonable solution. You know Winterfell and how things used to be before the war. The household was in good order, and I wish to have it that way again.”

Theon said nothing, merely shook his head in bewilderment.

“You know the lands as well as I, maybe even better. You can tell the men where to hunt, where to send the horses to pasture and the sheep. You know which rivers and lakes are best for fishing. You can read and write and do sums and equations. You were taught the basics of stewardship just as Robb and I. You commanded men in battle, and you know what to do when the castle is under siege, or when bandits raid the kingsroad. I have yet to find a castellan, a new master of horses, and I will send for a maester from Oldtown... when these men come to Winterfell, they will be strangers and know nothing of how it used to be. You do.”

“You cannot believe for a moment that your precious lords would condone that.”

Jon briefly thought of Satin, and how some of the men had protested when Jon made him his steward. Satin had been despised because of his past, and still, over time, the men had come to respect him. A few more years, and no one would have questioned Jon’s decision any more. 

“What Stannis did today made them see reason. You did not see their faces while you confessed, did you? How eager they were for your blood at first and how that changed. In the end...”

“They pitied me.”

“That, too. But they finally understood. And no one objected when Stannis proclaimed his verdict, not the lords of the mountain clans, nor the queen’s men. And they know that you saved my life. I do not think that anyone will object if I keep you here in my service.”

Theon looked doubtful, but Jon went on, ignoring the unspoken protest. “Winterfell was your home. It can be again, for real, this time. And it is no charity; I offer you a position you are suited for better than anyone else. Hard work. It is also a chance, Theon, for... atonement. You regret what you did. Everyone saw that today. You can help to rebuild Winterfell, help me make it into a home for Rickon and Bran, if he returns.”

Theon closed his eyes. “Why would you say that? Why is it so important for you?”

“Because,” Jon said softly, “I want you here.” 

He hoped that Theon would, if nothing else, at least believe this truth.


	32. Davos II

The Blackfish departed from Winterfell with two and thousand men. Their progression went smoothly, but Davos thought that Ser Axell and Ser Clayton, who accompanied Tully and were second and third in command, looked very grim. Stannis had given Lord Brynden command of the host, and the queen’s men did not agree with the king’s decision. 

Whoever succeeded in taking the Dreadfort would hope to be awarded the castle in return. A price well worth the hassle of an extended siege, a prize that each of Stannis’ knights would have liked to win. But giving the Dreadfort – the most important stronghold in the north apart from Winterfell and White Harbor – to a southerner would not go over well with the northmen. Lord Brynden, on the other hand, had no territorial ambitions. He was a considerate man who would neither take unnecessary risks to conquer the castle, nor let the Freys escape as a way to end the siege in a timely manner, something Stannis had expressly forbidden. 

Davos, Stannis, Lord Snow and some other lords watched the host’s departure from an outlook on the outer wall. In orderly rows the men marched down the kingsroad. Garrons and mules pulled the provision wagons, but apart from that, they took very few horses with them. It would take them longer to reach the Dreadfort, but horses were of little use in a siege – quite the opposite, since they needed large amounts of fodder to feed them. 

A murmur rose amongst the men on the Wall when the standard bearers came into sight. There was, of course, the fiery heart with the Baratheon stag, and Tully’s personal coat of arms right next to it. The banners of Florent and Suggs, Glover and Umber behind them. And, almost hidden from sight, the black banner with the golden kraken. 

“Your Grace,” Ser Rickard said, sounding shocked. “The kraken...” 

Stannis never took his eyes from the slow progression of the host. “What about the lady?” 

“She is a traitor,” Ser Rickard said, the accusation audible in his voice. 

“She is ironborn, the heir of Pyke. Time has come to secure our ties to the Iron Isles, and bind them to the rest of Westeros once more.” 

Ser Rickard knew better than to press the issue. The knight’s lips formed a thin line, white with the pressure it took to seal them shut, but he merely nodded and stepped back. 

Davos watched Horpe leave the wall, recalling the evening before when he had talked to Stannis.

“When King Robert subdued Balon Greyjoy, he gave his son away as a ward. A hostage,” Davos had said.

Stannis waved a hand. “That is the way it is always done.”

“Aye, Your Grace. But – please forgive me the insolence – what your brother failed to do was to bind the Iron Isles to him by more than grudging necessity and fear for their hostage’s life. Many said that Robert knew how to turn foes into friends, but he never made an attempt to sway the ironborn. They are a proud people. Balon Greyjoy saw the Starks rise to power, saw the Lannisters curry favor with you brother. If Robert had offered the Lord of Pyke a position of power – maybe even a seat in the small council...”

“The Greyjoys were no allies during his rebellion.”

“Neither were they his enemies. Balon Greyjoy stayed neutral during the war. If he had sent his ironborn to the riverlands to support the Targaryen forces during the Battle of the Trident, the war would have had a different outcome.”

Stannis scoffed. “Speculation.”

“Yet the fact remains that the Greyjoys were never treated with the same respect as other houses. I am not saying that Your Grace should forget who they are, or what they did. I only wish to express my conviction that by keeping Lady Asha by your side – and not as your prisoner, but as a bannerman – you might gain an ally.”

“Banner _man_.” Stannis did not need more than one word to make his skepticism known.

“Bannerwoman, then.”

The king grimaced. 

Davos smiled. “Your Grace accepted Lady Mormont as the heir of her house. Arianne Martell is the heiress to Sunspear – she will lead Dorne in the foreseeable future. You accepted counsel from Lady Melisandre...”

Stannis’ face darkened, and Davos refrained from finishing the sentence and cleared his throat. “It is my belief that Your Grace should acknowledge the possibility of a change of custom over time. You are father to a girl. Would it not be in your own interest if Shireen could one day rule by herself, be queen in her own right, and not merely her husband’s puppet? Lady Asha is a fighter and a commander. You could make use of her talents, instead of wasting them by giving her to a knight as a reward. It is your chance to bind the Irons Islands to the Iron Throne – if Your Grace would forgive the jest.”

“You plead a convincing case, Lord Davos. Why would you speak for a woman you do not even know?”

Davos sighed. “We will need more than Manderly’s ships to take the South and try for King’s Landing.”

“Lady Asha will not bring us ships. She does not have enough power amongst her people.”

“Not now, since the Kingsmoot has chosen her uncle. But once Euron Greyjoy and his brother Victarion are defeated...”

“The ironborn will not follow her.”

“They would, if she were the only one left of Balon Greyjoy’s blood. And if the treaty Lady Asha arranged with Lady Glover at Deepwood Motte were sealed.” 

Stannis raised his eyebrows. “You heard of that?” 

“I talked to Robett Glover on our way here from White Harbor. He knew of the bargain Lady Sybill had struck with Lady Asha.”

“Lady Asha is still a woman wed.”

“A seal was used in her place to perform the wedding. By the laws of Westeros, a woman must consent to her marriage for it to be valid, and even the ironborn should honor that custom.”

“True.” 

“You might be able to convince her to marry one of your knights. But from what I have heard and seen of her, you might make her your ally by letting her fight at your side on her own. By recognizing her claim where her uncles did not. By keeping her at your side, you have a chance to make peace with the Iron Isles – not now, maybe, but in the future.”

The king stared at him for a long time. Then he turned around and called for the guards. “Tell Lady Asha to report to me at once.”

They both waited in silence. Davos bit his tongue not to question Stannis about his intentions until Lady Asha arrived. 

She knelt before Stannis a little hesitantly, eyes downcast. 

Stannis glared at her. “Your rebellious mood seems dampened, my lady. Why is that?”

“I have no reason to hold a grudge, Your Grace,” she replied, perfectly polite, if one could ignore the steel underlying her soft voice. “You set my brother free. I wish to express my gratitude for it.”

A fleeting expression of pain crossed Stannis’ face. Davos would not have been able to recognize it for what it was, had he not known Stannis so well. 

“I did not do it for you,” the king said.

“I know,” Lady Asha said. “What is it you wish from me, Your Grace?”

“If I were to order you to marry one of my knights, you would consent?”

She looked up and met Stannis’ eyes. “That depends.”

“Ser Suggs asked for your hand in marriage.”

She tensed. Davos felt a hint of sympathy for her. She displayed strength and boldness, but underneath it all, she was a young woman in a hostile environment, despised by the northerners and Stannis’ men alike. 

“I would rather die,” she said. 

Davos could tell she meant it. Stannis, on the other hand, gave no sign that he had even heard her. 

“Ser Massey did as well.”

“I would – I would take that into consideration.” Her shoulders sagged a little. She toook a deep breath. “Ser Massey left for Braavos. When would Your Grace have the wedding take place?”

“Once Massey returns successfully, I should think. Until then...” the thinnest smile showed on Stannis’ face. It looked a lot like grim satisfaction, as if he enjoyed Lady Asha’s discomfort.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“I will take your oath. You will swear fealty to me, and your men will serve me under your command – they, and all other ironborn you can call to your banners. Under the condition that you will indeed marry Ser Massey, or another knight of mine that we can agree on.”

Her eyes widened. “So be it,” she agreed. 

“I will hold you to your promise to deliver me Torrhen’s Square – but not right now. First you will prove your loyalty and go with the Blackfish to besiege the Dreadfort. For whatever reason, Lord Brynden seems fond of you, and asked for your assistance.”

“I told him I could sail any vessel, be it down a river or at sea, and that I would do what I could to help him retake Riverrun if he spoke to you on my behalf.”

If Stannis was impressed by her honesty, he did not show it. “Then swear to me. And do not believe for a moment that I will forget your family’s treachery, or the defiance you showed me. You will pay the price, by doing as I command.” 

Lady Asha took the oath. It was hard to tell who was more disconcerted by it: she or Stannis.

~~~~~

“My lord hand.” The guard bowed to Davos. “Lord Snow wishes to speak with you.”

“Let him in, please.” Davos rubbed his eyes and rose from his chair. He was glad for the interruption.

His long journey to Skagos had done little to help improve his reading. If anything, it seemed that his ability to concentrate on the scratchy letters had suffered greatly from the lack of practice. While he still recognized them if they stood alone, once it came down to the actual reading, they refused to stay in a tidy sequence and disarrayed, dancing and switching places before his eyes. Davos had the strong suspicion that the failure resulted not from a deficiency of mind, but of sight. He grew older, and, as of late, he had begun to feel it. The bone-aching cold exhausted him, and all the minor ailments he had acquired over the years made themselves known in new and unpleasant ways. New skills were not as easily honed as they had been in his youth. Davos had come to accept the fact hat while he might be able to read a letter with some amount of patience and diligence, he would never be adept at it. 

He sighed and went to the table beside the desk to pour wine for himself and his visitor, who entered the room with an easy, graceful gait that made Davos feel the weight of each and every single one of his years.

Lord Snow bowed to him. “My lord hand.”

Davos looked at him. The young man was no older than his son Maric had been – a little younger, even, Davos assumed. His shoulders were broad, promising strength. Davos silently compared him to his father. A decent man, who had never once looked at Davos with the contempt of a highborn lord who disapproved of a commoner rising in rank. His son seemed very much the same. 

Davos smiled at Jon Snow. “Lord Snow. How may I help you?”

Lord Snow also smiled, and Davos was again reminded of his sons. Allard had had the same kind of smile, rare but memorable.

“I wished to express my gratitude to you, Lord Seaworth,” Lord Snow said. “I wish to thank you for bringing Rickon back to Winterfell. House Stark owes you a great debt.”

“I did what I had to do, Lord Snow. There is no need to thank me. It was a part of my service to the king. While I admit that I harbor no small amount of affection for your brother, what I did was foremost my duty. If you owe anyone a debt, it is Lord Manderly, who was responsible for sending me to Skagos.”

“Lord Manderly may have been the one to instigate the rescue,” Snow said. “But it was you who undertook the journey. The reasons do not matter. House Stark owes you, and I personally am deeply indebted to you. Whatever you wish of me in return, if it is in my power to give... You are the king’s Hand, my lord, and surely not lacking any mundane goods, but if there is anything I can do...”

Davos scratched his beard with one hand. “If you want to show me a kindness, please do so in serving His Grace as a loyal bannerman. That is all I could wish for.”

“I have sworn allegiance to him, and will serve him to the best of my abilities,” Lord Snow said. 

“I know, Lord Snow.” Davos hesitated for a moment. It seemed illoyal to talk about Stannis in his absence, and in a way he had spoken to no one except Marya or Maester Cressen. But in the short time he watched Lord Snow and the king, he had gotten the impression that the young man might understand him. “The king is a good man. Most people only see the harshness, the unyielding surface. But underneath... he is a man like we all are. Please, do keep that in mind. I think that His Grace trusts you, Lord Snow. If you feel that you owe me a debt, give him your trust in turn.”

A hint of red colored the young lord’s cheeks. “I will. I already do.”

“Then there is nothing else I could want for.”

Somehow, without knowing how, Davos had embarrassed Lord Snow. He looked very young, wetting his lips with his tongue. His right hand clenched into a fist and unclenched again after a moment. He did not seem to be aware of the gesture. 

It reminded Davos of the way Dale had looked at his wife-to-be before their engagement. The association made little sense, except...

Davos looked at Jon Snow more closely, hiding his growing amusement. “I am sure the king appreciates your support,” he said. 

Snow nodded, mutely, and Davos took pity on him. “Is there anything else, my lord?”

“There is, in fact. The king told me that you will remain at Winterfell while he secures the Nightfort.”

“Yes.” It was the prudent thing to do. In Lord Snow’s and the king’s absence, Winterfell had to be held by a trustworthy ally. 

“Lord Manderly will stay here as well. He has proven himself beyond a doubt. Will that cause a problem for you, Lord Seaworth? I was given to understand there might be resentment between the two of you..”

“Not from my side, Lord Snow. Lord Manderly has always treated me with courtesy, even during my imprisonment. If the king sees no reason to object, and I don’t believe he will, I most certainly will not.”

“I am glad to hear that. May I ask you for a favor, my lord?”

“Of course.”

“Rickon speaks very highly of you. If you found time during our absence to talk to him occasionally and keep an eye on him...”

“It would be my pleasure. As I said, I have become very fond of him. Will you, in turn, keep an eye on my son? He will accompany the king.”

“I will,” Lord Snow said. “My lord – if you do not mind the question – I do not wish to interfere, but you have just been reunited with your son. Do you not wish for him to stay at your side?”

Davos wished it more than almost anything, but Devan would not thank him for any attempt to hold him back. “My son is almost a man. He is as determined to earn the king’s respect and approval as his brothers were, and I am afraid that if I ordered him to stay, that might cause a rift between us.”

Jon Snow lowered his eyes. “I understand, Lord Seaworth. I will keep an eye on him, look out for him a little.”

“Thank you,” Davos said, and offered wine to lighten the mood and distract himself from worrying about his son, and the rest of his family. 

“The king’s daughter will also remain at Winterfell for the time being,” he told Lord Snow, not sure whether he already knew that. These past few days, so many things had been set in motion that no-one could be sure the other was aware of the latest developments. “She and Rickon could practice their letters together. Shireen could profit from the company of a so... determined and outspoken young boy, and Rickon might learn some more appropriate, courtly manners.” 

Lord Snow could not suppress a wry, almost rueful grin. “A good idea.”

“Both of them should be taught by a maester, although I am not sure one can be spared at the time. Do you have a steward, my lord, who might be charged with the task?”

“Not yet,” Lord Snow said. He looked a bit wistful. “I had hoped, but... Lord Manderly offered to send a man from White Harbor, but that will take time.”

They talked a while longer. What started as a somewhat stilted, polite conversation slowly turned into a more cordial exchange. Davos had to admit he was impressed by the young man, who seemed serious and intent on doing right by his people maybe even more so than his father had been. 

Davos also got the impression that Jon Snow admired the king more than he openly dared to admit. He wondered whether it went to the point of infatuation. If it did – had Stannis noticed it? Davos had witnessed such a thing before. While Stannis was certainly not a man who invited such thoughts, squires and sometimes young knights were easily impressed by power and strength of character, both of which Stannis possessed. Usually Stannis steadfastly ignored such a thing. Davos wondered if that might change. The king had admitted to his inclinations. And Theon Greyjoy no longer shared his bed... It was, of course, nothing Davos could ask about. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, trying not to give too much weight to the thought. 

More than two hours had gone by when they parted ways for the evening. Lord Snow headed for the great hall, Davos to look for the princess, who yet needed to be informed of her father’s decision.

~~~~~

To Davos’ dismay, Shireen was nowhere to be found. She was not inside her chambers, but the ladies-in-waiting told him she had gone with Lady Alys to visit the stables. Lady Alys, once Davos had found her in her husband’s company in the great hall, told him Shireen had expressed the wish to pray for her mother’s soul in the pavilion in the lichyard, where the ashes of the queen’s pyre were stored. The guards who had accompanied her there were waiting outside, but the pavilion was empty. Davos, who started to feel worried, considered raising an alarm when he found a couple of footprints in the snow, leading from the backdoor of the lichyard to the godswood. Davos shook his head in confusion and followed their trail.

He found Shireen in the ruins of the glass gardens, protected from the wind by a partly collapsed wall. She sat on a low bench made of wood and stone, which had likely been used to store potted plants in the past. Next to her sat Theon Greyjoy. They were talking in quiet, measured voices.

“... Lord Reed and the lords who came with him?” Davos heard the princess say.  
“Their lands are poor,” Greyjoy replied. “They rely on certain skills to survive in the swamps. It makes them different; the northmen do not understand their ways. The crannogmen are not used to long spans of open, solid ground. They do not fight their battles with knights on horses and thousands of foot soldiers. Instead they adhere to tactics that served them well in the past when enemies tried to invade their territory, fight in small parties, attack from the sides and retreat again, make the enemy come to you so you can prepare the ground with traps. The northerners like a straightforward battle, and call the crannogmen craven.”

Shireen considered this. “What they do is not honorable.”

“But effective.”

She scrunched up her nose. Davos realised she was not wearing her hood, obviously comfortable enough in Greyjoy’s company not to care about her disfigurement. “No one will respect them if their victory is won in a cowardly way.”

“A war is not honorable,” Greyjoy said. “Take Robert’s Rebellion, for example. Do you know what happened during the Battle of the Bells?” 

“The Battle of the Bells was fought at Stoney Sept. King Robert hid in the sept while Lord Connington’s men searched the city for him. The army of Hoster Tully and Eddard Stark came to his aid, and together they won the battle.”

Greyjoy snorted. “There you have it. Robert hiding behind the walls of a sept, was that honorable?”

Shireen frowned. “He was injured and went there to heal.”

“Think of what Lord Connington did. Had he behaved less honorably, he would have set the whole town afire. Instead his mean went from house to house looking for Robert, and the delay gave the Tullys and the Starks enough time to attack. They brought the war inside the walls, and while they tried to spare the townfolk, many were killed when fires broke out or arrows missed their targets. Then Robert came out of hiding to ambush Connigton’s men from behind. Was that honorable?”

Shireen, wide-eyed, stared at him.

“Jaime Lannister cut King Aerys’ throat from behind. Was that honorable?”

“No.”

“No, but Robert still kept him as a member of the Kingsguard. When I took Winterfell, using my knowledge of the castle, was that honorable?”

“No,” she said decidedly, and Greyjoy seemed amused by it. 

“Your father was able to take the castle with negligible losses because Manderly’s men murdered the guards and opened the gates. Was that honorable?”

Shireen bit her lip. “But...”

“It was not honorable. What it was, was effective. What Manderly did spared the lives of many men – of your father’s men, but also of Bolton’s bannermen, who have now sworn fealty to him. War is not an honorable thing, nor a good one. It is war. There are no honorable decisions – only tactical ones.”

Shireen shook her head. “But...”

Greyjoy waited, giving her time to gather her thoughts.

“The Boltons took Winterfell by betraying the Starks and turning against their rightful king. That was not right. They deserved to lose,” she stated, lifting her chin.

“We do not disagree on that,” Greyjoy said. “But that is not the point. Remember what we were talking about in the first place? The crannogmen and their way of fighting. Let’s return there for a moment.”

She nodded. 

“The crannogmen do not keep many horses, because travelling the marshlands on horseback is next to impossible. Which means that they also do not wear heavy armor – without horses to carry their weight, that would be plain foolish. Lacking iron, they use bronze to make weapons – or use flexible, supple wood to make short spears that are easy to carry and throw. They have no need for bows – there’s not deer in the swamps to bring down, no bears or boars. They use traps and nets to catch smaller prey. They use poisonous plants to make blowpipe darts that numb and slow down their enemies. Is that dishonorable?”

“I guess not,” Shireen conceded grudgingly, and Greyjoy laughed. 

“You cannot apply the concept of honor to something as battle tactics.”

“But that is not completely right either,” Shireen objected. “Some things are just evil.”

“Such as?”

“Such as wildfire. Or what the Freys did at the Red Wedding.”

Greyjoy was silent for a moment. “How do you know about that? Did your father tell you?”

“No, but I listened when Lady Melisandre talked to my mother. I pretended to be asleep, but they knew I was there, so it is not as if I listened in.”

Greyjoy snorted, and Shireen ignored him. 

“The Freys broke the laws of hospitality and murdered their guest. They plied the northern lords with beer and then they slew them. And they set the tents afire with flaming arrows and killed all their bannermen. And at the battle of the blackwater, Tyrion Lannister threw wildfire onto the ships...”

“Wildfire is a horrible weapon,” Greyjoy said. “But it is just that. You cannot compare it to what the Freys did. That was...” he shook his head. 

“It was evil,” she insisted.

“Yes.”

“My father would never do anything like that. He is a good man.”

“He is,” Greyjoy agreed somberly, and Shireen nodded, satisfied. 

Davos, feeling less guilty than he should have for listening in on them, chose this moment to make his presence known by clearing his throat. 

They immediately got up from the trunk they had been sitting on, like children caught doing something forbidden.

Davos stepped in front of them. “Princess Shireen, Lord Theon.” 

“My lord hand,” Greyjoy said, almost expressionless, while Shireen’s face brightened with a smile. 

“Lord Seaworth!” 

“I apologize for interrupting a lesson in war tactics,” Davos said to her, barely able to hide his amusement. “But I think, my lady, that maybe it is time you returned to your guards to let them know you have not been murdered, nor taken captive.” 

Shireen lowered her eyes guiltily. “Of course, my lord.”

“I also came to tell you that your lord father decided you should remain in Winterfell for the time being.” He saw no reason to keep this secret from Greyjoy; the whole castle would know soon enough. “Until we know how we stand with the Night’s Watch and the wildlings, you will be safer at Winterfell, with myself and Lord Manderly as your protectors.”

Shireen’s shoulders sagged. “That means I will not see father for a long time, doesn’t it?”

“We all hope the conflict can be solved swiftly and without boodshed.”

“It is not fair. Devan can go with him...”

“Devan is one of many squires in the king’s service,” Davos said gently. “You are the princess, his heir. As long as your father has to take your safety into consideration, he cannot act freely; the risk that someone might abduct you, or that you could fall ill in the cold like your lady mother is too great.”

“I know,” Shireen said. 

“Young Lord Rickon will remain here as well. As the future Lord of Winterfell he has much to learn – you could help Lord Manderly and myself to educate him.”

Davos knew he was baiting her. Girls were no different than boys in that regard: they were more likely to obey when they believed their obedience served a more important purpose than keeping them out of harm’s way. 

Predictably, Shireen’s scowl softened. “He is much younger than I.”

“Which is why you would be able to teach him many things. If you wish to ease your father’s burden, this is certainly a way to help him.”

Shireen nodded a little reluctantly. 

They heard calls from the lichyard. Shireen winced. After a second she lifted her head and went to meet her worried guards at the entrance of the godswood. Davos did not feel a lot of compassion for their agitation; they should have guarded the pavilion more carefully. 

He watched them leave, the princess trailing ahead. From the corner of his eyes, he saw that Greyjoy aimed for a silent retreat. 

“Lord Theon, a word with you, if you please,” Davos said.

Their eyes met. 

“For what reason, my lord hand?” Greyjoy asked. 

Davos sighed. He did not answer the question right away, deciding on another approach. “You seemed to enjoy talking to the princess. Yet I have not seen you talking to anyone else these last few days.”

“Have you been watching me?”

“Not the way you seem to think – I did not make a conscious effort to keep track of your whereabouts. Yet I admit to being curious. Now that His Grace pardoned you, are you planning on accompanying the king on his way north?”

“For what purpose?” Greyjoy asked. “And why are you asking, my lord? Are you afraid my presence would cause problems for the king?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Davos admitted. “But after what I have just heard, I do not believe you will.”

“How much _have_ you heard?”

“You spoke about the crannogmen. You seem to have a detailed knowledge about their ways and customs.”

“Lord Eddard Stark made sure that all his men – that included me, at the time – knew the crannogmen were his trusted allies and to be treated with respect.”

Davos nodded. “You taught the princess an important lesson.”

Greyjoy shrugged. “All of Lord Stark’s children, sometimes even the girls, had to learn about warfare and history. A king’s daughter should know such things as well.”

“I agree, Lord Greyjoy, and so does His Grace. However, Shireen is an only child, and her mother doted on her. I am afraid that she spent less time than she should have under a maester’s tutelage.”

“So it would seem,” Greyjoy murmured. His eyes, a muted cornflower blue, met Davos’ again. “Why are you showing such an interest in her education?”

Davos weighed his head. “If Princess Shireen is to rule Westeros one day, the shortcomings in her education have to be rectified.”

“Rule Westeros? Be queen in her own right? That does not seem likely.”

“His Grace has no other children.”

“Yet,” Greyjoy replied at once.

Davos considered his next words carefully. He was treading on perilous ground. “His Grace has no wish to marry. I would rather relieve him of the duty to do so.”

“He married once. There is no reason not to do it a second time.”

“Things have changed,” Davos replied. “As you should know.” 

He did not feel comfortable hinting at Greyjoy’s and the king’s intimate relationship. It felt like an inexcusable intrusion into Stannis’ most private affairs. Yet Davos was the king’s hand and obligated to think of the fate of the realm in ways that went beyond the most urgent challenges.

Greyjoy shrugged, condescending. “I fail to see how any of that should affect the king’s ability to marry and sire children.”

Davos sighed. He got the impression Greyjoy was trying to bait him, maybe goad him into revealing – what? “That His Grace found no happiness in his marriage is no secret. I highly doubt the outcome would be any different with another woman. A scorned, shunned wife is not likely to be supportive of him. We have seen the consequences of an ill-fated match during his brother’s reign.”

“Are you sure you should you be discussing this with me, my lord hand?” The irony could not be missed. 

“I believe I am not telling you anything you do not already know, Lord Theon.”

Davos hesitated a moment, but since he had taken the first step, he might as well take the second. He thought maybe Greyjoy would prefer honesty over courtesy. “I admit that I have an ulterior motive in approaching you, and adressing this rather sensitive topic. I hope to get an impression of you. To be frank, I regard it as my duty to find out whether you might represent a threat to the king.”

“A threat? Are you serious? Look at me, my lord, and look closely. I am a threat to no one,” Greyjoy said with a bitter smile. 

“Would you consider yourself his ally?”

At that, Greyjoy laughed; an open display of disbelief and scorn. “I doubt the king has need of my allegiance. Nor that he wishes for it.”

“Why not?” 

Greyjoy’s nostrils flared. “As if you did not know.”

Davos scratched his beard. How could he phrase this? “I was given to understand that the king did not offer you much of a choice but to oblige his request. His Grace assumes that you resent him for it. Is that true?”

Greyjoy stared at him. “’Not much of a choice’,” he repeated. “You could say that. He threatened to burn me alive, how much of a choice is that?” 

Davos cringed internally because Greyjoy was, of course, right. He kept his gaze steady, inquiring, not yielding an inch. What he did was necessary, even if Greyjoy reacted with anger, even if it meant Davos had to learn things about Stannis’ he would rather not know.

Greyjoy inhaled and looked away. “You need not worry. I am not the king’s enemy. Since I have no means to prove it, you will have to take my word for it. Not that it is worth all that much.”

“Do you resent him?” Davos asked. “I do not mean to judge, I only wish to understand.”

Greyjoy’s expression darkened. “I hardly have a right to complain, do I? And what would it change if I did? The king has no use for anything I might have to offer. It makes no difference what I think of him as long as I do not plan to act against him – which I do not.” 

The wording seemed odd to Davos – as if it was born from regret rather than resentment, which did not makes sense to him. Without thinking, he asked, “Lord Theon, what are your feelings for the king?”

Greyjoy flinched, taking a step back. “You have no right to ask me that. None.”

Davos felt a little as if he was talking to a spooked horse, likely to bolt and run at any given moment. He had never been comfortable around horses. “As I said, I do not mean to judge, or to blame you for speaking your mind. Whatever you wish to entrust to me; rest assured that it is only between us.”

“And I am to take your word for it?”

“At face value,” Davos said seriously. 

Greyjoy turned his head to the side. “I do resent him, and at the same time, I do not,” he said slowly, as if he was speaking against his will. “Some things...”

“I promise, whatever you chose to reveal will be safe with me,” Davos assured him once more. 

“Will it?” Greyjoy’s eyes measured him. “What about this, then: the time he called out your name as he fucked me, I almost lost my mind.”  


Davos inhaled sharply, shocked. Had Stannis truly... But there was no reason to assume that Greyjoy was lying. 

“The other time, I walked out into the snow – because I could not bear anymore what he was doing to me. But that is not all there is. Because I wish I could hate him for it, but I can’t. I have heard enough to know that his brothers were ingrates – Robert exploited his talents, but did not give him anything in return, and Renly repaid his loyalty with treason. His wife used him for her own purposes, as did the red priestess. No one ever truly cared for him, and for some reason, I understand exactly how it feels. What it is like to be used.”

Greyjoy took a deep breath, turning his head to the side. 

“He is infuriating. Completely insufferable most of the time, and mildly annoying at best. But there are... there were times when he was _not_. When he let himself be the man he truly is, not the one he thinks he should be. It was enough to make... make me want...” 

Greyjoy fell silent, his gaze dropping to the ground. Davos could not see his face under the hood.

“I felt safe,” Greyjoy said after a moment. “I makes no sense. He used me like a whore, and certainly did not care about my opinion on that matter. Somehow, though... I knew he saw me. He knew who I was, knew everything I had done. He never let me forget that, but it was fine because I could be myself, and he did not expect me to pretend anything I did not feel. It was fine because he still... touched me. Held me, at times. Let me cry like a girl in his arms. Is that what you wish to hear?” 

Greyjoy crossed his arms over his chest. His voice was a barely more than a whisper. “I know how insane it sounds. Most of the time I do not even _like_ him. And... he certainly deserves better He has you now, has he not? You will be able to give him what he wants.”

Davos wet his lips. “It is not like that.”

“It _was_ not like that. Now that you know about him... he wants you. The same way he wants Jon. Lord Snow, I mean.” Greyjoy laughed, but it was mirthless and broke off almost immediately. “Why am I even talking to you?” 

Greyjoy turned around and started to walk away from Davos. His head was bowed.

“Wait,” Davos called out. “Please wait.”

He followed Greyjoy and managed to grab his sleeve. Greyjoy tried to free himself, but Davos took hold his arm. “Please listen to me.”

He caught Greyjoy’s eyes. They were wide, filled with too many emotions to discern them all. 

“What you said is true,” Davos admitted. “The king is fond of me. But it is not as simple as that. I would not be able to give him what he truly desires.”

“Sounds simple enough to me,” Greyjoy said crudely. “It is easy, actually. Drop your breeches, bend over. The king will tell you exactly what he wants.”

His words did not miss their target. Davos felt like he had been punched in the gut, and closed his eyes to swallow down the nausea. What had Stannis done to this man and to himself?

“The king cares for me. And I hope that he will continue to do so, in the way one friend cares for another,” Davos said. “But what His Grace and I share will never go beyond that. I am bound to him by obligation. In fact, my position requires a more distant relationship. As the king’s hand, I must tell the king the truth, and must speak when I feel he is doing something that he should not. Fortunately, His Grace respects me enough to listen to me. It is my duty, and duty comes first. Yet even if that were not the case – the king is a decent man. He would not demand of me what is not in my nature to give.”

Greyjoy sneered, and Davos shook his head. His loosened his hold, but did not remove his hand.

“I know that what he did to you says the opposite. It is hard to make excuses. Winter is a time of trial for the best of us, and the war takes its toll on men. We are all flawed, and the king is no exception. I am not saying that you should condone his deeds. What His Grace did to you was wrong. He knows it and regrets it deeply, and pardoned you for that reasons – not because of my return.” 

Greyjoy seemed skeptical, and Davos added, “It had little to do with me. I am not saying, nothing. Because His Grace knows that, once I had been made aware of the situation, I would have spoken my mind and told him that his deeds were reprehensible. But His Grace is a Baratheon, and the stag wears its antlers as a clear sign of their utter stubbornness. If he had not been determined to do the right thing himself, he would not have set you free.” 

Greyjoy did not reply. Davos took a few deep breaths. He felt a little light-headed, not used to making long speeches like that, and sharing his insights and beliefs about Stannis with a near stranger. But Greyjoy had a right to hear what Davos thought, for no other reason that he had, albeit reluctantly, confided in Davos. 

“You told the princess that her father is a good man,” Davos said after a moment. “It did not sound like a lie to me. Was it?”

“No,” Greyjoy said.

“Then maybe you will find it in your ability to forgive him one day. I am not saying that you have to, nor that you should.”

Greyjoy looked at him, face blank. 

Davos sighed. “When His Grace told me about your... agreement, I asked him whether he wished for you to stay with him. He refused to answer the question, believing that you would not consider it. But that does not mean that he would not have wanted you to. In fact, if he did not, he would have made that clear in no uncertain terms.”

“You are lying,” Greyjoy whispered. “He told me... told me I was no concern of his. He has Snow now. He has you. He doesn’t want me.” 

_Snow?_ For the second time, Greyjoy had mentioned Jon Snow. Did that mean Stannis and the young lord were more than allies? Nothing Stannis had said tom him had indicated that might be the case. Stannis was unusually fond of the young man, but there had been no sign that their relationship went beyond that.

Davos focused on Greyjoy. “It is understandable that you should think so. But while I am not an educated lord – I am a low-born man, I was a smuggler and a thief once – I have spent many years now in service of Stannis Baratheon, and I dare say I know him better than most. He cares about you, of that I have no doubt.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Davos nodded solemnly. “You will never know if you do not make an attempt to find out.”

Greyjoy’s brow furrowed. He seemed puzzled for a moment. “Are you... is that an attempt to _meddle_?”

A little embarrassed, Davos averted his eyes and scratched his beard. The conclusion was resaonable, even though Davos had not intended to give that impression.

“Why?” Greyjoy finally asked, still with a note of disbelief.

“I wish for His Grace to find happiness.”

“With _me_ ,” Greyjoy said flatly.

“Not necessarily, but I though, maybe? I know that this must seem strange to you, but...”

“To say the least,” Greyjoy murmured.

Davos cleared his throat. “However, if you found it in yourself to forgive him, it would be a kindness to let him know. I am afraid that your reading of His Grace’s character was quite accurate. He can be... difficult to get along with Still, a lot of that is owed to his belief that nothing he does will ever be sufficient to... to earn him admiration and gratitude, and, most important...” Davos found he could not possibly say the word.

“Love,” Greyjoy said.

“Yes,” Davos agreed, relieved that they understood each other. 

He nodded at Greyjoy, who looked... pensive. Skeptical, but also less hostile than he had at the beginning of their conversation. 

In the end, Greyjoy bowed to him and turned to go. 

That was when, out of the blue, another thing occurred to Davos. “Lord Theon?”

Greyjoy stopped in his tracks, turning around. “Yes, my lord hand?”

“Should you decide to remain at Winterfell for the time being, I would ask you to consider becoming my aide.”

“Your... your aide?” 

Davos took a few steps toward Greyjoy so he could talk more quietly and still be heard. “Yes. I was told by His Grace I needed one, and I tend to agree. I am a man of common upbringing – my reading and writing skills are sadly still less than adequate. Custom dictates I should take a squire to assist me, but it seems cruel to keep a young man at my side who would rather learn to fight in combat. Pardon for saying so, my lord, but I believe you will not be missed on the battlefield.” 

Davos regretted saying that immediately, he was sure the young man did not need the reminder, but Greyjoy merely shrugged, acknowledging the truth. “I doubt I would be of much use to you either. I am not a scribe, nor a scholar. You should consider asking a maester to help you.”

“I have no maester at my disposal. Maester Pylos will go north with the king. Maester Theomore will remain at Winterfell with Lord Manderly, but I do not trust him to the same degree. Even so, I doubt he will have the time or be willing to be at my beck and call, not when his loyalty lies with Lord Manderly first, and when there are many sick and injured who require his help.”

“But – why me?”

“You are a man of many talents, Lord Theon, which include an extensive knowledge of the North and its customs – as you have just proven when you taught the princess a valuable lesson. Not only would I benefit from that, but Shireen as well. She has clearly taken a liking to you, and might listen to you where an older man’s wisdom would be dismissed.”

“You want me to tutor the king’s daughter?” Greyjoy asked, the disbelief almost comical. “Of all the things you said to me, this might be the most ludicrous.” 

“In my position, the reasons are valid,” Davos said. “Will you at least consider my request?”

Greyjoy looked at him with wide eyes and an intense focus. Davos thought that maybe Greyjoy was truly seeing him for the first time – not the king’s hand, but Davos himself. He was glad he had nothing to hide, that he could offer Grejoy the truth and nothing else.

After a moment, Greyjoy nodded. “I will.”


	33. Theon XIV

_I have a choice._

Theon could not recall the last time he had been given a choice. Not in a matter of importance, in any case. 

He was walking, over and over again, the well-trodden circuit atop the inner walls. He had been doing it for an hour or even longer, ever since he had left Lord Seaworth behind in the ruins of the glass gardens. The guards watched him with apprehension, but no one approached him, no one bothered him, apart from the curious glances aimed in his direction. No one spat at him, or hurled insults at him. 

Growing up in Winterfell, Theon had not had any say in his fate. He could roam the castle at will, but he could not leave without a couple of guards accompanying him, even if he only went to visit the winter town. Day and night, he had been surrounded by men and women watching his every move – not with malice, exactly, but with a pertinent awareness. Ten years after his arrival at Winterfell, he had still been a stranger, one they did not trust as they would have trusted a northerner.

He had not been free to give up his heritage to become a sellsword in the Free Cities, or try for knighthood in another part of the kingdom. A hostage’s life, while valued, was forfeit. But it was not as if the sons and daughters of noble houses had much of a say in their own fate anyway: the firstborn sons were raised to rule, the second-born sons to be knights, vassals to their brothers, and all sons that came after that might, depending on their talents and their parents’ wealth, to become maesters, septons or stewards. The daughters were given no choice at all – they were wed as soon as a favorable match could be made. And many, boys and girls alike, were raised as wards in other nobles’ households, just like Theon had been. 

When Robb had gone to war, Theon had never thought twice about joining him. They had been close as friends and brothers in arms. The other lords had still doubted Theon, had made it clear that he was not one of them. And then Robb, trusting him, had cut him loose – had sent him to the irons isles. From then on, one decision had led to another, in a chain of events that seemed inescapable. Until that very chain had tightened around his neck, strangling him. There was one moment that stood out amongst them, a crossroad of sorts, where Theon had been given one last choice, and had wanted to make the right decision, the only one left at the time. To deliver Winterfell to Ser Rodrik and take the black. 

But it had been too late; he choice had been taken from him by Ramsay.

In the Dreadfort, Theon had become Reek. Reek, who could do, would do nothing that Ramsay did not command. If Reek made decisions at all, they were based on what he thought would hurt him the least, trying to avoid pain, trying not to enrage his master, because enraging Ramsay meant that pain inevitably followed. 

Giving him back a lord’s clothing, bidding him to sit at the high table, had not changed anything. He was still Reek, back then, Ramsay’s creature. Even the day he escaped, his freedom had meant nothing more than the chance to die in peace, and not rot in the dungeons, flayed bare and torn, literally, into pieces.

As Stannis’ captive, Theon had enjoyed a certain degree of freedom, but his choices had still been very limited, and the death sentence hanging over his head, suspended only for as long as he obeyed, had kept him in line. 

Now, for what felt the first time in his life, Theon could choose his own fate.

He could become Winterfell’s steward. Jon had asked him to. _I want you here._ The offer had been genuine, and so very tempting. A chance Theon only needed to grasp. 

He could become the onion lord’s aide. A position of power, and one that required a certain set of skills he was not sure he possessed. That Lord Seaworth should be willing to trust him was incomprehensible to Theon. But then, he could tell from their one encounter that the famous onion lord was loyal and decent to a fault, much as Ned Stark had been. 

And if Theon decided to accept neither of these proposals, he could leave Winterfell altogether. 

Theon passed the northern gate, looking over the Wolfswood. 

He could take the black. If the black brothers took him in, he might serve as a steward amongst them, or even as one of the rangers. After what he had heard, they did not have many men who were adept at tracking and scouting, and while Theon could not shoot a bow to hunt game, he was still able to ride and maybe even wield a spear with a certain amount of practice. With his newly found appreciation of men in a carnal sense, he would not even have to be celibate at the Wall. 

Theon passed the hunter’s gate. 

He could return to the iron islands. Provided that his uncle’s men did not kill him on sight, he might go to visit his mother and stay with her. If he pretended to be, a madman, would they let him live, hidden away from the world? The very idea was foolish even in his current state, Theon was a threat to Euron Greyjoy, and would not survive the first night back on the isles. Even if that had not been the case... he was no true ironborn any more, had not been for a long time, no matter what Asha thought. The iron islands were no longer his home. 

He wished it had not taken so long for him to learn that lesson. If he had known at the time Robb sent him there, then maybe... 

Theon passed the southern gate.

He might become a merchant, or even a maester, if Asha paid for his studies. A brown brother of the Seven, or even a septon. He could leave the North behind, cut the ties that bound him to this land. Become someone else, build another life, all the while hoping that the past would lose its hold on him, that the nightmares would stop and the memories start to fade. He would no longer be Theon Greyjoy, and he could not quite imagine who he might be instead. 

The king’s gate. 

He could leave for the Free Cities and never look back. Ships were sailing from White Harbor to Braavos every few days; it would not be difficult to find a passage. 

This wasteful, futile war would not concern him any longer. What did it matter who won the Iron Throne in the end? Lannister – Baratheon – what difference did it make? 

Theon slowed his steps, coming to a halt right on top of the gate. He could see the cobblestone pavement leading to the kingsroad, covered with a thin layer of ice and frozen dirt. 

He could leave it all behind. Leave them to fend for themselves. The ironborn. The northerners.

Asha. 

Jon.

Jon, whose smile had become precious to him. Who was so annoyingly selfless and noble that it made Theon want to kick him, yell at him and pound some sense into him. Who carried the weight of his responsibilities like an armor, one that kept him awake at night and suffocated him during the day, and yet he would feel naked and bereft without it. 

Theon could do it. Jon had a purpose in life, he had Rickon, Winterfell, and Stannis. 

Stannis. 

It was not as if the king needed Theon to win his war. It was not as if it Theon had any obligation to him.

 _He is the rightful king._

Theon snorted at himself. What did that word even mean, ‘rightful’? The laws of succession were never as unequivocal as it seemed. There was custom, dictating that the eldest son follow his father. Then there was the king’s right to name his heir. And both meant little if it was not supported by power, if the proclaimed king was not able to defend his throne, or to defend the realm. 

Stannis _was_ the rightful king. But that meant nothing as long as he was caught in the North, far away from King’s Landing, and without the swords to form a host large enough to beat the Lannisters. 

And yet... 

If Stannis did not win, the Lannisters would prevail. And their allies, the Freys, who had murdered guests under their roof, breaking the laws of gods and men. Robb’s death would never be avenged, and his murderers would spread twisted lies and wash their hands clean of his blood. 

The Lannisters had done all this. They had murdered Lord Stark, who had never shown Theon anything but kindness, to the extent it had been possible. They had murdered Lord Stark’s wife and children as well. Theon had played his own part in that by taking Winterfell, delivering a blow that Robb had not expected, dealt from behind and hitting the weakest spot. The Boltons had merely taken advantage of that. Roose Bolton had been no fool; he would not have sided with the Lannisters if the North had been strong under direwolf banners. 

_I paid for my sins in their dungeons, and it was no less than I deserved. And now Roose Bolton is dead, and Ramsay, too. But who is going to hold the Lannisters accountable for it, who is going to bring the Freys to justice?_

_Stannis. No one else will._

Stannis, who had freed Winterfell, and who had also freed Theon. 

Stannis, who had given him a choice.

It all came back to that. 

_Why did he do it? Was it as the onion lord said, that he wished for me to stay, and did not dare ask? That seems impossible, he was so callous when he told me he did not care what I did._

Why it was of such grave importance to him, what did it matter? He had been given freedom, he should grasp it with both hands – what was left of them, anyway – and run away before someone decided to take it away from him again. 

But what did freedom mean to a man who had nothing left ? What did freedom mean if he had nowhere to go? If he could not sleep through a night by himself without waking from nightmares, when it was so hard to breathe at times, knowing that there was no one he belonged to? If all he wanted was to hold on to something that had never been real? 

_What if the onion lord was right? What then?_

_No, he cannot be right. Whatever he fancies His Grace might feel – some nice sentiment – it is nothing but a figment of his imagination._

Theon needed to let go, but how could he do that if the king’s hand came to him with his delusional rambling? If he wanted closure, there was nothing to do but find out the truth himself.

And there was only one way to accomplish that. 

~~~~

“Please ask His Grace to bestow upon me the honor of a private audience,” Theon told Eben.

The guard looked at him with a puzzled frown for a moment, then shrugged and knocked on the door. 

Theon could not hear what was spoken inside. A moment later Eben returned, shaking his head. “His Grace does not wish to see you.”

Theon stared at him. 

“I am sorry, my lord.” It sounded somewhat ridiculous form Eben’s lips, who had always called him turncloak before. Theon raised his eyebrows, and Eben looked aside and shuffled his feet. 

“Please tell His Grace that I only want to ask him one question. Nothing else,” Theon said, almost satisfied to see Eben scowl. It was a much more familiar expression.

“Don’t you have nothing better to do, m’lord?”

“No.” 

“His Grace won’t like that. Pestering him will gain you nothing except his wrath. And I’ll be damned by the Se... by the red god before I bother him a second time.”

“One question,” Theon repeated. “All the time you guarded me and kept the key to my chains – have I ever done anything to make your duty harder than it was? Have I ever asked a favor of you?”

Eben grunted, but he did not object, and after a moment, he relented. “If I ask again, and he says no, will go away without another word of complaint?”

“I will,” Theon said. _You have my word,_ was on his tongue, but that was a phrase he tended to avoid at all costs. The results of saying it out loud were never pleasant.

Eben turned toward the door. “Wait here, m’lord.”

It took a little longer this time, and Theon heard the king’s raised voice at one point. When Eben returned, he was in a considerably darker mood. But he gave Theon a tight nod and left the door open for him. 

~~~~~ 

Stannis stood before the table with his back to Theon. He did not look up, staring at the large map and the small tiles that were placed on top of it.

“I have no time for this,” he said tersely. “Just this once, I will indulge you. If you ever dare beset me like this again, I will have you flogged.”

“I appreciate your generosity, Your Grace,” Theon said, but it did not come out with the amount of scorn he had intended. He had never felt this unsettled in the king’s presence before. The fluttering sensation in his belly and the furious beating of his heart made him want to laugh at himself. _Some girl I have become._

“One question, you said,” Stannis said, a clear warning. “So ask.”

_For closure. To be certain. To know._

“Do you want me?” Theon asked. 

Stannis spun around on his heels. “What kind of question is that?”

“An easy one, Your Grace,” Theon replied. “You never said, not once. Do you want me?”

Stannis stared at him, speechless, his mouth half open, as if he wanted to shout at Theon but lacked the necessary amount of outrage. 

“Of what concern is it to you?” he said, a rebuff rather than a question. 

“I naturally assumed you did not,” Theon said. “Until Lord Seaworth said you might.”

“Lord Seaworth spoke to you about this?” Disbelief, and obvious anger at t the breach of privacy. 

“He told me that he believed you cared for me. I told him he was mistaken. But what is the truth?”

Stannis stared at him as if Theon had grown a second head. 

“A simple enough question, Your Grace,” Theon said. _And you have not answered it yet._

Stannis turned to the side, away from Theon. He took a few steps and halted at the end of the table, where he made another half-turn. His hands came down onto the surface of the table with a heavy thud, and he supported his weight on his arms. His head was bowed. “What is it to you?”

“Do you desire me? Do you care for me? I admit there is a difference between the two – that would make it two questions, not one.” 

Stannis looked up from the table and met Theon’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Yes, to which one?”

“Both. I do feel... a certain, ill-advised fondness for you.”

For a moment, Theon could barely breathe. 

Relief, astonishment, and affection were battling in his mind. But a vicious feeling of satisfaction determined his next words. 

“Good,” he said. “That means we are on equal terms, Your Grace.”

“You are not making sense,” Stannis growled. His posture had not changed, he looked as if was expecting an attack and was bracing himself to deliver the first blow instead.

“Does Your Grace, by any chance, recall the night after Snow had told you of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna? You asked me what was on my mind, bid me to speak freely. As I refused, you told me to be quiet.”

The order had been hard to obey, but it had been worth it, Theon thought, with a rush of heat threatening to flush his face as he remembered the way Stannis had fucked him that night. 

“I remember.”

“I can tell you now, if you wish. I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” Stannis asked as if the concept was foreign to him. Maybe it was. “Why?”

“When Snow went to confess to Your Grace, I knew what would happen between the two of you” 

Stannis’s face contorted into an ugly mask of scorn. “I will not discuss this with you.”

“You do not need to. I only meant to explain. I was jealous because I knew you were fond of him and preferred him over me.”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed down to a point where his eyebrows nearly met. “Jealous that I preferred _him_?” he repeated slowly. 

“That is what I just said,” Theon said. After a moment, he sucked in a sharp breath at the implication. “You thought I was jealous of _you_.” 

It all became obvious in that moment, and Theon almost laughed. “You are a fool.”

That elicited a reaction from the king. He straightened his stance, and his face took on a calm, almost frightening expression, like the calm before the storm. 

Theon did not let it deter him.

“You are a fool,” he said again, almost enjoying the opportunity to insult the king. “I was jealous because I wished you felt the same for me, that you desired me the way you desire him.”

Theon took a step in the king’s direction. Stannis was watching him as if he was not sure whether Theon was a friend or a foe. 

“Why would you say that?” Stannis asked. 

“If you do not know that by now, you are even denser than I thought. What did you think I meant when I said we were on equal terms?”

Stannis’ eyes were alight with passion, fury and scorn. “You do not want me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Only a madman would say something like that after what I did to you. After all that I forced you to endure. I _raped_ you. It was never anything else. That I did not overcome your resistance with bodily strength, that I did not keep you in place with chains, does not change that.”

“In the beginning it was. As of late... Do you think I only pretended to enjoy what you did to me?”

A faint blush rose in the king’s face. Stannis cleared his throat and, for once, he was the one to avert his gaze. “That you took pleasure from the act does not mean it was something you desired for yourself.”

“But I do. Not at first. If you think for a moment that being forced to bend over out of fear for your life, letting a man who despises you fuck you until you bleed, is a pleasant thing, I dare you to try it. But consider this, Your Grace – if I had, at any point since the time you came to me after I had almost frozen to death, told you _no_ , what would you have done? Would you have taken me by force, or sent me to the block?”

“No,” Stannis said. “That still does not mean...”

“To me it does. Did you fail to notice that I came to enjoy myself quite a little bit?”

“You would not come to my bed willingly.” 

Theon shrugged. “I would. It is not a hardship, quite... quite the opposite.”

“It has nothing to do with affection. You are afraid,” Stannis reasoned. “You wish to keep my protection, and a warm place to sleep at night.”

“Are you aware that Snow offered me to become Winterfell’s steward?” Theon asked. “And Lord Seaworth told me only hours ago that he needed an aide, and that he deemed me suited for the position. No, Your Grace, if I merely wished for protection, I could find it elsewhere. Yet here I am.”

Stannis turned away from him, toward the window. “Lord Snow offered you to stay at Winterfell, you say. I was given to understand you two had become... close. Then why would you approach me?”

“I was given to understand you two had become close as well,” Theon responded. “But that has nothing to do with... with _this_.”

He approached Stannis, who still stood with his back to him. “I could try to explain, to convince you, but I doubt it would impress you. I will say just this one thing... If you want me – if you truly want me – you can have me.”

Stannis stiffened as Theon spoke. “You do not know what you are offering. And even if you did – I am the king, I am not at liberty to indulge in love affairs that divert me from my goals.”

“Your fucked me for months. It did not divert you from anything,” Theon said. His hands itched to touch, itched to make Stannis turn around and face him. 

“You are a man. A man should want more than to be a whore,” Stannis said. He held himself so straight and tense that he appeared like a statue, carved from marble. 

Theon raised an eyebrow behind his back. “Did we not agree on salt boy?”

“What difference does it make?”

Theon might have attempted a jest, but now was not the time for it, and he thought that in this case, the truth would serve much better to make his point clear. 

“The difference is that you do not pay me,” he said. “I’m just yours.” 

The silence after was nerve-wracking. Theon had no idea what would happen, and he had time to regret his precipitant words. 

“Do not...” Stannis’ voice cracked. “Do not say that.”

While Theon released a deep breath he had not realized he had been holding, Stannis turned around, facing him. Theon took another step toward him. 

“I am yours,” he said in a low voice. “If you want me.”

Stannis’ eyes darkened. “I do.”

Their mouths met in a violent clash. Stannis’ hands were clutching at his shoulders, his grip bruisingly strong. Theon had missed that, these last days, more than he’d ever thought he would; the urgency and the unleashed desire. 

He had not known why he even made the attempt to win the king over, why he had needed so badly to find out whether Lord Seaworth had been right. But this, this, was the answer. The ferocity, the shared lust and need, even if it was brutal and even violent. Theon wanted to give himself over to Stannis, have him take everything Theon could possibly offer, to transform it into passion, satisfying them both. He wanted Stannis to lay a claim to him. Only Theon got to see this side of Stannis, where he allowed himself to take what he truly wanted, and the knowledge made him light-headed; it felt so right. 

_This._ Stannis’ hands were on him, greedy and demanding, pulling the clothes off him while he was still claiming Theon’s mouth with cruel bites and kisses. Theon gave in to him without a second thought. They had done this before, but never like this, never in the knowledge that they both wanted it. 

Stannis bit down on his neck, and Theon’s knees went weak. 

“Yes.” He did not know what he agreed to. 

Stannis growled, spinning him around to bend him over the table. Theon heard him mutter something about salve, and a need for it, and the meaning did not even register. 

Stannis let go of him. “Stay,” he told him, and crossed the room to fetch something from the shelf, and only when he returned with a jar in his hand and Theon smelled the familiar scent, he realized what Stannis had been saying. 

“Hurry,” Theon whispered. 

One callused finger probed at his entrance. Covered with salve, it slid in easily, but it was not what Theon wanted. “No,” he said, squirming. “No. Just... just your cock. I want to feel it.”

Stannis hissed, and the jar slid from his hands, shattered on the floor into a dozen pieces as he undid his own breeches. 

He pushed in, and it hurt just right, a pain Theon had started to crave, that turned into a pleasure so intense he thought he might die from it. At the same time, he had never felt so alive, the moment so utterly perfect, the rough strokes of Stannis’ cock in him, thick and hard, opening him up. He moved back into every thrust. Stannis’ arms wound around him, his hands, hot and greedy on Theon’s bare skin.. 

Theon laughed, giddy and whispered, “You will never let me go, will you?”

“No,” Stannis said. “Not unless you ask me to,” and Theon moaned, felt the slide of the king’s cock inside of him, how it was owning and destroying him all at once. 

It did not last long. Stannis thrust into him another couple of times, crying out as he stilled and spent himself inside. Theon groaned and pushed back in an effort to feel Stannis’ cock as deep inside him as possible. He closed his hand around his cock, touching himself in a way he had not for more than a year. The pleasure rose, and he heard himself whisper, “Stay inside, like this, please.” 

With his left hand, Stannis pushed Theon back against his, while the right one slid down to close around Theon’s, strong and whole. It was enough to send Theon over the edge; he came, his whole body clenching as his seed spurted from him. Stannis grunted, pained, and his cock slid out of him, smearing wetness between his thighs.

Theon’s legs refused to carry his weight. He let himself sink down onto the table’s hard surface. Stannis made a noise of disapproval and pulled him up again. Theon leaned back into what was, for all intents and purposes, an embrace, and tried to catch his breath. 

Stannis’ body was a furnace behind him, and less tense than usual. If Theon had not known better, he would have said that Stannis was snuggling him. His forehead was resting on Theon’s shoulder, his breath was moist and warm against Theon’s shoulder blades.

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Theon asked after a moment. 

That earned him a snort. Stannis straightened his stance and let go of him. Theon immediately felt cold, and became aware of his nakedness. 

“Do not mock me,” Stannis said.

Theon laughed. “I’d never.” 

“You make me rue the day I spared your life,” Stannis said, but his words were lacking anything resembling true bite, and Theon recognized them for what they were, a lie. 

“You do not.”

No reply came. Theon turned around to look at Stannis. The scowl on his face did not seem to be directed at Theon. 

“I am obviously lacking common sense,” the king muttered. “Sending you away was a prudent thing to do. I should not have given in to temptation. This is a foolish course, it can only lead to disaster.”

“Why?” Theon asked, bending down to pull up his breeches and suppressing a hiss when the soreness made itself known.

His question seemed to irritate the king. “For obvious reasons. Keeping you this close will rise questions, will lead to rumors and assumptions and cause all other kind of inconveniences. Need I spell it all out?”

“But that does not mean...”

The king shook his head sharply, and Theon fell silent. 

Stannis was looking at him. His eyes softened. “As I said, all kind of inconveniences. And yet I am starting to think it might be worth the risk. Does that not satisfy you, Theon?”

For a moment, the world seemed to come to a standstill. Theon stared at Stannis, dumbfounded. Stannis had called him by his name before, but never this way, without a hint of sarcasm. It was not casual either, the way Asha said it or Jon, but with intent, as if it was something meaningful. And while Stannis’ voice was still anything but gentle, those two soft syllables stole Theon’s breath like an unexpected caress. 

Theon nodded, averting his eyes. This was so much more than he had ever dared to hope the king might give him. 

“You better dress,” Stannis advised him after a moment. He had, somehow, once again succeeded in remaining mostly clothed himself. 

When Theon was done, Stannis was standing before the table where Theon had made quite a mess all over the polished wood, and where Stannis had dropped the jar of salve. 

Stannis shot him a significant glance. “You will need to clean this up. I have no intention of explaining this... disgrace to my squires.”

Theon did not even try to voice a protest.

To his great astonishment, Stannis bent down beside him as Theon was just wiping up the remains of the salve, collecting a few scattered shards.

“You should consider taking Lord Seaworth’s offer,” he said.

Before Theon could reply, Stannis rose to his feet again. He put the shards on the table. “You should not be content with staying idle. Duty is important not only as a service to others, but to give a man’s life a purpose. I will not keep you as a paramour to sit in my tent and eat sweetmeats like a spoiled pet.”

“You could make me your squire,” Theon suggested while he also got up from the floor. He wrung out the rag he had used to clean both table and floor in a bowl of water.

“It is a privilege and an honor for my bannermen to send their sons to my service,” Stannis said. “If I deprive them of this opportunity, they will start to complain. You, on the other hand, are a man, not a boy. You should carry a man’s responsibilities.”

“So I am to stay at Winterfell and await your return?” Theon asked. 

Stannis stared at him, but said nothing for a long time. Then, as if the words were wrested from him, he said, “This one time – for the duration of the campaign – you may take Devan’s place as my squire, if you wish. Upon our return to Winterfell, however, you better accept the position Lord Seaworth offered you.”

He turned away from Theon and went to pour himself a goblet of water.

“The Hand of the King usually stays close to the king,” he said. “If you were at his side, you would be close to me as well. Once I sit the Iron Throne, I cannot keep a... salt boy, as much as I might wish to.”

“You thought about this,” Theon said in awe. “You _considered_ this.”

“I am the king, and my decisions have consequences. I need to think ahead, and so should you. Consider my words. If you decide to come with me, you will have to clean my armor, serve me meals, wait on my guests.”

Theon thought about it. “Where would I sleep at night?”

Sudden heat flared in Stannis’ eyes. “In my bed. Provided you succeed in staying quiet.”

“I can try,” Theon said. 

~~~~~

In a way, Stannis had been right. Staying idle, spending his days walking around, restless and lost in thought, did Theon no good. Now that Asha was gone, he had literally no one left to talk to. She had chosen her side – the right one, Theon thought – and gone to serve her king. It had been another blow, in the days following his trial. That Stannis had taken her oath after he had just disposed of Theon... it had left a bad, bitter taste in his mouth. 

It was different now. As he walked around at a leisurely pace, Theon saw for the first time how it had changed. It had never been as crowded and busy in his youth. The traces of the fire were still visible, but since Stannis’ arrival, the re-building had made steady progress, and now almost all the stables and keeps were restored. 

Only a few months had gone by, yet the world had changed, irrevocably, and the biggest change had happened inside Theon’s mind. 

_Have I truly devoted myself to serve a king – and not only one king, but this king, insufferable, grudging, grouching Stannis of House Baratheon?_

_I did. And this time, I will not repay his trust with treason._ Theon thought of Robb, and regret and guilt washed over him. _I wish I could tell him how sorry I am. I wish he had not died with the belief that Bran and Rickon were dead and all was lost. I wish I could beg for his forgiveness._

But Robb was gone, and Theon belonged to Stannis now. _By my own choice. I must never forget that. I must always remember my name._

~~~~~

That night, Theon came to Stannis’ chambers without being summoned. It was a first. The guards, who had obviously received orders to let him in, opened the doors for him without question.

Stannis was readying himself for bed, taking off his clothes and scrubbing himself down with a washcloth and hot water, his movements quick and efficient. It was not the first time Theon saw him do it, but it felt different today. 

Stannis acknowledged Theon’s presence with a short nod. Theon watched him for a couple of moments, then, following an impulse, he stepped closer and held out his hand in a silent invitation. Stannis frowned, but handed him the washcloth without protest. 

Theon wrung it out, then started washing Stannis’ back. Stannis stood rigid, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. Muscles rippled under Theon’s touch, but after a moment, Stannis relaxed ever so slightly. His skin was warm under Theon’s hands. 

Would it be like this from now on? Would Stannis allow him this kind of liberty? 

Theon was inclined to draw the moment out, but instead imitated Stannis’ own, perfunctory mannerism. He washed Stannis’ back and legs, but as he went to kneel to attend to his feet, Stannis made a guttural sound, not unlike a growl, and took the washcloth back from Theon’s hands. “That is enough. I am capable of doing this myself.”

Theon looked up at him. “I know. Let me guess: you even shave yourself in fear someone might attempt to slit your throat with the shaving knife?”

Stannis’ scowl told him he was right. 

“And you probably never bathe for longer than necessary, and only in absence of any servants who might be watching you?”

The scowl deepened, and Stannis opened his mouth for a doubtlessly scalding reply, but Theon had anticipated that. “One day, I will teach you how to enjoy the luxury of wallowing in a hot bath for an hour or two.”

“I have no time for that.”

“You might change your mind. There are other amenities that go with it.”

“Such as?”

Was Stannis truly so innocent? “The right company might provide some... entertainment.”

Stannis’ face contorted to a mask of disapproval. 

“Believe me, you will like it,” Theon said. “One day I even might...” he hesitated, not wanting o make promises he might not be able to keep. “Well, just you wait.”

Stannis snorted and resumed his washing. When he was done, he reached for a shift that had been lain out next to the fire and pulled it over his head. 

Theon had already taken off some of his clothes. The king’s nod, aimed at the direction of the bowl, indicated that Stannis meant for him to clean himself as well, and Theon followed the unspoken request. 

Stannis was almost asleep as Theon finally extinguished the lights and climbed into bed. They lay beside each other for a moment. 

“You never tried to make me use my mouth after that first time,” Theon murmured. He did not know why he chose this moment to mention it. 

Stannis inhaled deeply, and Theon, sensing the impending retreat into annoyance or, worse, anger said, “One day I might want to try it again. After a bath, preferably.”

There was a long pause. “It is not a requirement,” Stannis said at last. “I do not expect it of you.”

Theon hummed in agreement, his eyes already falling shut. Sleep had not come easy these last few days, and now he felt like his limbs were made of lead. “But you know how good it feels?”

“No,” Stannis said roughly. “I never... there has been no one.”

That surprised Theon. “You mean, not even Snow...” he interrupted himself before he could say anything else. 

Moments passed in silence before Stannis said, “I would rather you refrained from assuming certain facts regarding Lord Snow and I. I assure you, there is no reason for your jealousy.”

“I was not jealous because you were with him. I was because I thought you would choose him over me,” Theon admitted. He winced a little, glad his face was hidden in the dark. “I may be weak, but I am not a girl taken in by ridiculous notions of eternal love. I would not even... I would not mind if you were with him, as long as what you said were true – that you feel affection for me.”

“You talk too much,” Stannis reprimanded him, sharply, and while Theon did not think that Stannis was truly angry at him, he felt it prudent not to insist. 

That did not mean he could not think it through, though. 

He meant what he had said – he could not blame Stannis for wanting Jon, not when it was something they had in common. Theon could admit to himself that he wanted both of them. In the privacy of his own mind, where there was no need to pretend otherwise, or to question his own reasons. 

He wished, foolishly, he could tell Stannis. But then, maybe Stannis already knew. Theon could vividly recall the way Stannis had looked at him the night he had spent in Jon’s bed, face set in stone, his eyes cold. 

If Theon addressed the topic now, Stannis would take it the wrong way – would think that Theon had merely settled for him, even though the opposite was true.

Jon’s words came to his mind for the umpteenth time. _I want you here._

Their fragile connection, the unexpected bond and understanding between them and the fact that Jon trusted him enough to offer such a position to him were a gift Theon had wanted badly to accept. But despite everything that had happened between them, their physical connection did not mean as much as the one between him and Stannis. 

Somehow Theon wondered if Jon – despite his infatuation with Stannis – did not desire men in the same way the king did, or even Theon himself. He could vividly picture Jon falling in love with a woman – and of course she would be someone impossible, beyond reach; a higborn girl or an outlandish princess, or someone as unsuited as a septa. 

Jon obviously enjoyed bedding men, but Theon wondered whether he would pursue them on his own. _Frankly, I cannot imagine him pursuing anyone at all; he is more likely to pine from afar._

Theon yawned. Beside him, Stannis was snoring peacefully. Theon rolled to his side and let his head find its favorite place on Stannis’ shoulder, and placed his arm over Stannis’ chest. Finally content, he went to sleep, shoving any thoughts of Jon to the back of his mind, where they lingered, like a soreness that was not quite strong enough to hurt.

~~~~

As Theon woke up in the morning, Stannis was standing at the window, watching the outside world with a frown. It was still dark, and only a tiny lamp lighted the room. 

Theon yawned and sat up with a sigh. 

Stannis turned his head to look at him. He was clad only in breeches and a shirt, and it was obvious he had just risen. 

“You are up early,” Theon stated. 

“Dawn has long passed. It is snowing again.”

Theon stared out of the window. He realized that it was, indeed, day, and the clouds hung low, the snow falling heavily and with a dreadful beauty. 

Winter had struck again. 

“I cannot afford this delay,” the king said. “The realm is not safe as long as the Wall stands unguarded, unsecured. We need to head north.”

“Yes, but you won’t be going anywhere while the snowfall lasts,” Theon said. “On the other hand, the Wall will stay in place as well.”

Stannis glared at him. 

Theon yawned as he made ready to get out of bed. “It is winter, what do you expect?”

He began to look for his clothes, sitting at the edge of the bed. After a moment, he noticed that Stannis’ eyes were avidly following his every movement. 

Theon stilled and a slow smile spread on his face. “You could come back to bed,” he suggested.

There was a flicker in the king’s gaze, but Stannis shook his head. “You are brazen. I must not indulge your gluttony.”

“Indulge your own, then,” Theon said, unfazed. 

For a moment it seemed as if the king was tempted, and Theon held his breath. 

A knock on the door destroyed any hope that he might get to spend the morning in bed. Theon sighed and got up to dress behind the screen.

The guards sent in Maester Pylos, who was clutching a scrap of parchment in one hand. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing to Stannis. “I am sorry to disturb you at this hour, but a raven just arrived from the South.” 

Through the ornamental holes in the screen, Theon could see how he handed Stannis a message with trembling hands. 

Theon tied his laces and put on a shirt, watching with one eye as Stannis read. When he came out behind the screen again, Stannis looked up from the letter, his gaze locking with Theon’s. 

“Send Lord Snow to me,” he said. “At once.”


	34. Jon X

_Storm’s End is under siege. The Golden Company rides under a dragon banner, led by a man who calls himself Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar, rightful heir of the Iron Throne. We hold the castle, but barely. They have ten thousand men, and old Targaryen banner houses flock to their banners with every passing day. Rumor has it that the griffin lord has returned, confirming the intruder’s identity._ 


Jon stared at the words. Aegon Targaryen? The prince that had been murdered by Ser Gregor Clegane the day the Lannisters took King’s Landing? 

“I thought only Prince Viserys had survived Robert’s rebellion,” he said. 

Stannis was watching him like a hawk. “Prince Viserys and his newborn sister Danaerys fled Dragonstone before I could lay siege to the castle.”

“Are they still alive?” Jon asked, wondering if he had ever heard the princess’ name before.

“They were when I left King’s Landing to retreat to Dragonstone before the war. I received a message from Robert that Viserys had died, and his sister had become a wife to a powerful leader of the Dothraki. I know he planned to have her assassinated, but to my knowledge she is still alive. Rumors stated that the dragon princess hatched dragon eggs, three of them; that she became a warrior queen, planning to return to Westeros to claim her birthright. I had other things to worry about, and the rumors were vague and utterly implausible, so I dismissed them.”

Stannis’ voice was almost deceptively indifferent. He had not taken his gaze from Jon once since his arrival. 

“Dragons?” Jon asked. “That sounds sound like an old wives’ tale.”

“A sailor’s tale, carried with ships from the east, from city to city, until it reached Westeros. I am now wondering whether they might hold a grain of truth; most tales do. Even so, it is nothing to worry about. This message, however, does not speak of dragons, and it is no rumor.”

Stannis’ dark, blue eyes measured him. Subjected to their merciless judgment, Jon felt cold. “Could it be true?” 

“That the Golden Company has come to Westeros? The Great Bastard Bittersteel’s legacy. Blackfyre’s spawn. If Penrose writes it, then it must be true.”

“Could it really be Aegon Targaryen leading them?” Jon asked

“That seems unlikely to me. While I was not at King’s Landing when the dead children were presented to Robert, there was never any doubt of their identity. Robert would have gone to great lengths to have them found and killed if he had had the faintest suspicion they could have survived. Could it be that he was misled, and one, or both of them, escaped? But who would have had the means, let alone the coins, to swap the children and hide them until it was safe to send them across the Narrow Sea? Who would have taken the risk, facing the danger of exposure and consequently death if word got out? No, I rather believe the Golden Company is following an imposter, someone with hair fair enough to pass for a Targaryen. I have no means to prove it, though.” 

“But what kind of proof could that man possibly offer to the houses of the stormlands?”

“Have you not read the letter?” Stannis asked in a caustic tone. “Jon Connington vouches for him and supports his claim. Those who remember the griffin lord, those who know who he was – Rhaegar’s friend, first and foremost, and a king’s hand only because he was foolish enough to oblige the Mad King’s wishes – they will believe, or pretend to believe he is telling the truth. They would be fools not to, confronted with a host of a ten thousand men who have no quarrel sacking and pillaging lands not their own.”

“Your Grace is most certainly right,”Jon said. “What are you going to do?”

Stannis’ sword hand clenched into a fist. “I can do _nothing._ I am trapped here until the storms pass, and cannot even return to the Wall as planned. This message requires further consideration, any maybe necessitates an adjustment of my arrangements in the foreseeable future – it does not influence my immediate plans.” 

Jon was confused. Why had Stannis called for him, if the news from the South did not entail an immediate change of plans? Why did he regard the message as so important that he had sent Theon to him so early in the morning on a day of snowfall and storm? And why was no one else present, not even Lord Seaworth?

Jon’s gaze sought out Theon, who stood beside the door and seemed to be listening closely. He had not offered any explanation as to why he had been the one to deliver the king’s message. Too distracted by its urgency, Jon had not asked. But Theon’s continued presence in the king’s private chambers, which had not been acknowledged by Stannis in any way, could only mean one thing.

_The rumors I heard yesterday were true. I believed the guards had misunderstood something, but it seems they were right. Theon is sharing the king’s bed again, though I have no idea how it happened. Are they lovers now?_

Although he knew he had no right to feel betrayed by the knowledge that Theon had not even bothered to tell him, Jon was hurt and a little jealous. 

_Think, Jon. Stannis sent for you for a reason. What are you missing?_

Jon’s eyes met Theon’s, and Theon blinked once. He tilted his head a fraction, as if he was urging Jon to say something.

 _What are you trying to tell me?_ Jon shook his head, turning toward Stannis. “I do not know what else to say, Your Grace.”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed. “That does not happen very often, Lord Snow. You do not usually show as much restraint in my presence.”

Jon could not tell what Stannis was implying, but he had the impression that he was being put on trial, and he did not like it one bit. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Snow,” Theon burst out. He took a step from the wall toward the both of them. “What the king wants to know is whether you intend to stay his ally, or are going to side with Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon almost thought he had not heard it right. “What? Why? Because he is a Targaryen?”

“No, you imbecile. Because _you_ are one. And because that man might – or might not – be your _brother_.”

“ _Theon,_ ” Stannis said through gritted teeth.

Theon turned around to face him. “You, Your Grace, are a fool as well,” he said. “This is _Jon Snow_ right before you. If you do not know by now where his loyalty lies, you know nothing at all. Do you seriously think, for one moment, he would break his oaths to you because somewhere in the south, a man is hoisting up a dragon banner and marching to war? Then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Theon,” Jon said, shocked that Theon dared to speak to the king in this tone.

“Tell him, Snow,” Theon said in exasperation.

Jon’s head was reeling as he looked at Stannis, and he swallowed. “I made a promise to you, Your Grace. I will stand by my word, always.” 

He wanted to say more, but he was afraid that his voice would waver, would betray how much he was hurt by Stannis’ distrust. “If you still require further evidence of my sincerity, after all these months...” 

He shook his head. “I am afraid I have none to offer.”

Stannis stared at him, and Jon’s held his gaze with a heavy, sinking heart.

“I should not have doubted you,” Stannis conceded at last. “It may be that I have been surrounded by toadies and liars for too long. And... I know that you are as loyal to the Starks as one could hope for, that you would never act against your kin. I apologize for assuming you might confer this loyalty to those who are more closely related to you by blood.”

“My place is here,” Jon said. “Nothing has changed, as far as I am concerned. I regard Rickon as my brother, and I will protect him and serve him as I serve you.”

Theon groaned. “Please,” he said. “This is ridiculous. Are you two still pretending that this is what it is all about, allegiance and fealty and whatnot? As if the true matter at hand was not something else entirely? While this might be a diverting game for a while...”

“Greyjoy,” Stannis growled. “Mind you tongue, or I will...”

Theon did not seem to be bothered. He returned the king’s gaze with raised eyebrows. “I have been watching you two play at it for months, and it is getting tiresome. You are still afraid to trust Jon because you want him. You want him to be yours so badly, and it is so plain to see.”

The king’s face was a cold, bitter mask. 

“That is not a bad thing,” Theon said. His voice softened a little. “And I fail to understand why you will not see it. You can trust him, and nothing bad will happen, he will not let you down. He is not capable of the kind of deceit or betrayal you ascribe to him. If you made the decision to trust me, knowing who I am and what I did – why would you reject him?” 

“Why will you not let this go?” Stannis asked.

Theon looked at the king intently, and he hesitated for a moment before he replied, “I meant what I said. I would not mind if you were with him. Much less... much less if I were a part of it.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. He remembered the night in his chambers when he had thought the very same thing. _Yes,_ he admitted to himself. _That is what I want._

Theon looked at him, and his lips curled in a wry smile. “Snow,” he said. “What do you say?”

Jon bit his lip. He knew he was blushing. “I would – I would like that.”

“This... this is madness.” Stannis did not even sound like himself. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior – it would be irresponsible, reprehensible of me.” 

“Would it?”Theon asked. “Really? If all of us agreed to it? You could... you could have both of us.”

“I cannot condone this kind of depravity.”

“Would you want to?” Theon said in a whisper.

Jon cleared his throat. “Your Grace.”

Stannis turned his head to look at him. His face was like a thundercloud, with the danger of lightning that could strike at any second. 

Jon moistened his lips with his tongue. “That day in the solar ,when I told you about Lady Lyanna. You said to me – you called me your wolf.” 

He could not read anything in Stannis’ face. Theon, thankfully, stayed silent. 

“What I may, or may not, have said to you – in a private audience I granted you because you explicitly, audaciously asked for it demanded it – you will not refer to it again in anyone else’s presence, is that understood?”

Jon nodded. Near desperation made him carry on, his voice hoarse as it had been when he was still recovering from the poison. “I would not have spoken of it, had Theon not already known. I would never betray you. I am your man, have been since the day I came to Winterfell and pledged myself to you.”

“You are so self-righteous at times,” Theon said, addressing Stannis. “When will you finally stop pretending and admit it to yourself? You are no better than the rest of us. You have the same urges, the same desires, as any man. You are no better. But you are certainly no worse. Wanting men – lusting after them, and taking them to bed – it is nothing to be ashamed of. You need not hide it, not in front of me, or Jon. You have the right to bed whoever you like – there is nothing wrong in it as long as you do not force anyone, as long as you are not doing it to torture, to cause pain – and _you do not._ I know how that feels, I know it, and believe me, you are not that kind of man.”

Theon took a deep breath, visibly agitated. “As long as what you do it for pleasure, not for pain, why would you be ashamed of it? Why would you deny yourself what little comfort there is in a world like ours?”

Stannis was trying to answer, but Theon continued, not giving him a chance to intervene. And for some reason, Stannis let him. “You decided to keep bedding me. Do you still believe it is shameful, and you can fuck me, as I am your salt boy, but that Snow – Snow deserves _better_ , somehow?”

“No,” Stannis said after a moment.

“Then why?”

“I made – I declared – After I committed myself to you, I would not break my word. I deemed it a mutual agreement. Was I mistaken – were you lying to me?”

“No,” Theon said without hesitation. “My decision was _for you_ , but it was not against him.”

He looked at Jon. “You were wondering why I was here, weren’t you? What I was doing here?”

“Yes,” Jon admitted.

“This is my choice. It is what I need – want – to do. Do you understand?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said. “I am surprised, I cannot deny that.” 

He looked at Stannis, who returned his gaze. 

Jon could not avert his eyes, even as he spoke to Theon. “If this is what you want, then I hope that you will find happiness. But I envy you, because it means that...” 

His voice was faltering. Jon took a deep breath. “That you earned trust where I failed to do the same.”

“You did not fail,” Stannis said. “Theon’s position is different from yours. Less... precarious.” 

The king looked pained for a second. It had obviously cost him a lot to even say that much. He averted his eyes from Jon, but they returned almost immediately, as if Stannis, too, could not bear to look away for long.

“He does not trust me more,” Theon said. “And I don’t think he _wants_ me more. But I am here, and he knows you won’t always be.” 

Jon was not sure what he felt in this moment. Jealousy, for sure, and regret. A little resentment, making itself known when he said, “I never aimed for the reign of Winterfell. I would have been content to serve as a knight in your army.”

He felt a little as if Stannis’ gaze was drugging him, tearing down the barriers of rank and propriety, leaving him bare. Stripping him of common sense as well. Before he knew what he was doing, Jon took a step toward the king. His heart was clenching painfully in his chest as he knelt before him. It was this, all or nothing, like in a game of dice. 

“You made a promise to me,” he said. “You said, ‘another time’.” _Does he even remember?_

“I did,” Stannis said. His hands were clenched into fists, as if he was forcibly restraining himself from reaching for him.

The desire, the hunger was obvious in his gaze, and Jon could feel it like a caress on his skin, one that made him shiver. _A craving._

Then Stannis tore his eyes away from him to look at Theon. 

Jon heard footsteps as Theon came up behind him. Theon’s right hand touched his shoulder.

“I could leave,” Theon said, sounding hesitant for the first time.

“No,” Stannis said. 

Theon exhaled, and his hand molded itself to Jon’s shoulder, the touch still light but steadier. 

Stannis looked at Jon. “Are you sure of this?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jon said. “Yes.”

Stannis pulled him up by his upper arms. Their mouths met, and Jon reveled in it, how it was so easy to let go and let his body speak for him. He wondered, could Stannis feel how fast his heart was beating? Could he feel his cock, already hardening inside his breeches? 

Theon made a soft sound. Jon reached for his hand, which had fallen from his shoulder. Theon’s fingers closed around his. 

_We are in this together._

~~~~~

Jon could not recall how they had made their way to the bed. When Stannis broke the kiss, Jon was breathless and aroused. Theon’s hands were on his hips, holding him. Jon closed his eyes. 

“Stay still,” Theon said in his ear. Jon turned his head, and their mouths met, a brief kiss, unexpected and almost sweet. Stannis inhaled sharply, and as Jon opened his eyes again to look at him, the king’s eyes were dark and hungry. At the same time, he seemed weirdly hesitant, and Jon was glad he was not the only one feeling out of his depth. 

Theon had no such quarrels. “Shall I undress him for you?” he asked Stannis. “Do you want to watch?”

“Yes,” Stannis said. 

Jon swallowed. He felt vulnerable, naked under the king’s gazes even before Theon started to undo the laces and strings. 

Stannis was watching them, watching while Theon’s hands lingered, caressing, sliding up and down carefully, making him shiver. 

“You are teasing me,” Jon whispered. 

Theon laughed. “Yes. You like it, Snow. And he does, too.” 

Jon could not hold the king’s gaze for longer than a moment. He felt as if the blush was never going to leave his face again. The shirt he wore underneath his doublet was opened and pulled over his head. Theon’s right hand slid over his stomach and up, until it rested just shy of Jon’s nipple, which was pebbling in the cold. 

Jon took a deep breath, dizzy with want. As Theon undid his breeches, brushing over his hard cock, he hissed. “Theon...”

“Patience, Snow. Sit down on the bed, will you?”

Jon did so, but he shook his head as Theon knelt before him to take off his boots. “I can do that myself.”

Stannis had turned away from them, and started to take off his own clothes. It was a bit of a relief, not being subjected to his gaze for a moment. It was easier to breathe. 

“Lord Snow is right. You are no valet; you should not defer to us like one.”

Theon, clearly startled, let go of Jon’s foot. “As you wish,” he said, sitting back on his heels to watch while Jon fumbled with the laces. 

“Do you intend to stay dressed?” Stannis asked, and Theon shook his head and started to work on his own laces. 

Once Jon was fully naked and shivering in the cold, he did not know what to do. Stannis had disappeared behind the screen, and Theon was still busy untying his doublet. 

Jon wished he had something – anything – to do, or that he knew what was going to happen. He had never truly thought about what it entailed to bed a man – to let a man take him. Was it painful? He knew some men of the Night’s Watch preferred to lie with other men, and according to rumors, a fair share of those who joined the black brothers did it to escape the prospect of an unwelcome marriage. Others preferred women, but did not have the wish or the means to pay the whores in mole town with their share of ale or meat, or the few coins they could earn if the performed additional duties. 

Jon had been told early in his time at the Wall that such things were unavoidable, even though it was considered sinful by all those raised in the faith of the Seven. As the Lord Commander, he had dealt with the issue the same way the Old Bear had, with acquiescence, as long as the men in question did not neglect their duties, or carried out their private matters in a manner that made it impossible to ignore. There was little comfort to be had at Castle Black, and if some of the men found a measure of solace in their brothers’ embrace – who could, in all honesty, begrudge them that?

What Jon had done with Theon before had been easy – it had felt a little like being with Ygritte, something that was mostly intuitive, taught and learned along the way. This was a different thing. Jon had agreed to it, and he wanted it, but while he sat on the bed, quietly waiting, he felt like he thought a maiden might at her bedding. He fought the urge to flee.

Theon crawled onto the bed, holding a small vial in his hand. 

“Come here,” he said to Jon. “Lay down.”

Jon obeyed. “What should I do?” he whispered. He was unexpectedly, absurdly grateful for Theon’s presence. 

“Let me do the work,” Theon said. “Trust me in this, I know what I am doing.”

He opened the vial. 

“Oil,” he explained. “I should use a special salve for it, but... we ran out.” He raised his eyebrows with a smirk when Jon almost coughed with embarrassment. “Will you let me?”

“Yes,” Jon said. He could vaguely imagine what Theon was talking about. 

“Turn over onto your stomach. It will be easier.”

Jon did it and closed his eyes again. Theon’s fingers were warm as they touched his back under the blankets, and they slid downward in a soothing motion until they reached Jon’s arse. They did not stop there, though, but went lower, went to places that seemed too private to permit intrusion. 

“Breathe, Jon,” Theon whispered. His fingers touched Jon’s hole, and Jon almost gasped, almost pulled away. “Let me.”

The sensation was strange and uncomfortable. Theon’s fingers, slippery with oil, were insistent, and Jon tried to breathe through it all, as his body adapted to the intrusion, as pain flared up and abated. A noise caught his attention. As he opened his eyes, he saw Stannis standing beside the bed, his gaze fixed on them. He was naked as well, his cock hard and of a deep purple color. 

Stannis sat down on the bed. He reached for Jon, pulling him up to his knees to kiss him. Theon’s fingers slid out of him, and Jon moaned into the kiss. 

He felt loose and sticky down there, and he almost could not breathe as he thought about what was to come. 

Jon had to struggle to keep balanced on his knees. Stannis kept kissing him, and his hands gripped Jon’s shoulders tightly for a moment before they went lower, until they were cupping his buttocks. 

My wolf,” he Stannis said in a low, rough voice that chased another shiver down Jon’s spine. 

“Yes.” 

“Lay down on your back,” Stannis said, and Jon obeyed without thinking. 

Theon lay down beside him, and his gaze met the king’s. “May I kiss him?” 

“You may,” Stannis said, his mouth curling in something close to a smile. 

As Theon bent over to kiss Jon, it was brief, but with intent, like a reassurance and a promise given and fulfilled – a silent affirmation between companions before a battle – only that they were venturing into a different direction. Jon laid his hand on Theon’s neck, stroking his thumb along the tendons. For a moment, he thought he might shed tears over this. This man, who had done so many horrible things, and suffered for them – how was it even possible that they had become this, lovers, brothers in arms? He did not know. 

Theon broke the kiss. Jon, who had closed his eyes again without realizing, felt a heavy, warm body slide over his. He spread his legs, making room. There was a moment of stillness, then the sound of a kiss – one that did not include him. 

Jon was tempted to watch, but then it was over and Stannis settled down on top of him and between his legs. All hardness and muscles and scratchy chest hair, so different from Ygritte.

Stannis’ lips tasted a little like Theon’s, but before Jon could explore that further, they abandoned his mouth and wandered along his jaw. 

“Yield,” Stannis whispered in his ear, his breath hot and heavy, and his cock a hard, demanding presence between his thighs.

Jon swallowed. 

“Do it, Snow,” Theon murmured to him, licking at the shell of his other ear. “It will be worth it.”

“Yes,” Jon heard himself say. “I yield.”

His hips were lifted, and someone – Theon, Jon thought – shoved a pillow under him.

Stannis pressed inside, and the burn bathed his insides with liquid fire. The pain was sharp like a shard of glass, and despite Jon’s resolve to keep silent, he involuntarily hissed once. Stannis stilled, his breath irregular and fast. Jon looked at him – the sweat gleaming on his forehead, the contorted features, the dark, glowing eyes. It helped him to focus on something other than the stitches of pain. He gritted his teeth, determined to endure it. 

“Go on,” Theon ordered with a hoarse voice. “He can bear it.”

Jon almost forgot the pain as the wish to throttle Theon overrode anything else, and he turned his head to glare at him.

“If I can stand it, so can you,” Theon said. Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Remember the first time your father sat you on a palfrey instead of your old pony. One hell of a ride, and you will be just as sore.”

Stannis grunted in annoyance. The tiny movement he made – just a shift of his weight – caused Jon to groan. Theon smirked and settled at Jon’s side, one hand coming up to pet his hair, in a comforting, repetitive motion. “Take slow, deep breaths. It gets better.” 

Jon tried to slow his breathing. He became aware of the tension in Stannis’ body, how the king held himself still with immense effort. Jon met his gaze. “Please,” he whispered. “Do it.”

The pain became worse before it got better, and Jon’s hand found Theon’s and clutched at it. Theon held on, and between that and Stannis’ slow, unrelenting thrusts Jon found he did not mind the pain anymore. The burn remained, transformed until it was less of a torment, and instead ignited something inside him that made his head spin.

“Yes,” Jon whispered and gave himself over to it. The next thrust made him cry out. 

And again, and again. He bit his tongue, embarrassed.

“No,” Stannis growled, in a low voice. “Let me hear it, everything,” and Jon gasped and threw his head back and moaned when Stannis pushed in deep, so deep. 

Theon laughed with delight and urged him on. “Just so. Gods, you blush as lovely as any maid, Snow,” but he squeezed Jon’s hand and did not let go, and Jon could neither spare enough breath nor wit to retaliate with a cutting remark.

Stannis growled, going faster now, and Jon let himself be taken. The pleasure sparked inside him until Jon became greedy for it, lifting his hips and pushing into each thrust. 

It was not enough. But then Theon’s hand closed around his cock, and it all became a blur of lust and hunger, and he found completion after just a few, strong pulls. Stannis groaned, low and urgent in his throat, and drove even deeper inside Jon. He circled his hips once, twice, and stilled with a silent moan. Still shuddering with the abating waves of his own climax, Jon could not feel how he spent. Then it was over, and Stannis bent down to kiss him one more time. Jon let him, lax with pleasant exhaustion. He was rewarded with a smile, rare as a gemstone. “You yield beautifully.”

Jon felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say, and closed it again, and Stannis, who had raised an eyebrow in expectation, looked darkly satisfied

Stannis pulled out of him and slowly lay down beside him. Theon settled along Jon’s other side, finally letting go of his hand. He prodded at Jon none too gently, urging him to turn to his side, only to curl around him as Jon obliged him. Jon felt the hardness of Theon’s cock against his arse. It brought to his attention how sore he truly was. He winced at the thought of doing this again so soon, but if Theon wanted... 

“As I said, one hell of a ride,” Theon whispered in his ear. “Go to sleep, Snow.”

Jon met Stannis’ eyes. “May I stay?” he asked. Even after this, it was no given that Stannis would let him; the king might argue that it would look too suspicious, that the guards would start to talk – he might want to keep this a secret at all costs. 

Stannis’ gaze rested on him for a while, before they wandered to Theon, only to return to Jon the next moment. 

“Aye,” the king said.


	35. Stannis IX

Stannis watched Jon Snow fall asleep in his bed. Only moments after Stannis’ reply, his eyes had fallen shut and his breathing slowed down. It was obvious that he had been exhausted even before they had started to engage in... exhaustive activities. 

Sometimes Stannis forgot how young he was. Seven and ten – young enough to be his son, younger than Stannis had been when the rebellion started. _I am twice his age. And yet, if I were to wed again, the girl would be his age, or younger._ The thought of another marriage filled him with revulsion. _Not now,_ he told himself, and a traitorous voice in his head whispered, _not ever._

Now that he knew what it was like to bed someone who came to him willingly – eager, even – he knew he would not be able to touch a woman again. _It is my duty. What happened to me that I shy away from it? In a matter as important as the succession to the throne, I must not fail the realm._

_I still have time. I must yet win the throne._

Those were excuses, though. Stannis rolled over to lie on his back, his eyes directed at the ceiling. 

_What would Robert say if he saw me now?_ he wondered. _Would he laugh at me, or recoil from me? Yet he knew about Renly, and he never said a word against him. But he loved Renly, whereas he never loved me. He would use it against me, he would mock me for it. Not judge me because I put my selfish desires first, as one righteously should, but taunt me for my weakness._

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. _Does it make me weak, that I did not resist this temptation – that I did not want to?_

“Stop that,” Theon said, and Stannis, startled, turned his head to look at him. Their eyes met over Jon’s sleeping form. “You are already brooding again. Doubting. Regretting your decision.”

Stannis could not deny it, so he said nothing, pressing his lips together with a scowl.

“Let yourself have this,” Theon said. “Days like these – things like these, good things – do not happen very often. Enjoy as many of them as you can. They might be gone tomorrow, but at least you will have the memories, and those – those do not actually keep you warm, in cold and darkness.”

Somehow, Stannis knew he was not talking about the world outside, the road, the winter.

“They do not nourish you when you are starving,” Theon continued quietly. “But you can hold on to them for a while, before they start to wear thin and fade. You can cloak yourself in them, a warmth that isn't real but felt. As the days go by, the cloak will tear and fray, will have holes and gaps – one day, it will fail to warm you at all, and you can no longer call it a cloak, only tattered rags. And even to those, you cling with a passion, because without them... without them, you are lost.”

Theon’s voice faded, and he seemed far a way in thought. Stannis reached for his hand, where it lay on Jon’s chest. 

Theon stared at it in surprise, then lifted his eyes and smiled at him. “You need not comfort me like a child.”

Stannis’ own words, said the night Theon had been with him after Selyse’s death.

“You are no child, although I begin to think you speak more nonsense than my fool,” Stannis said. 

His voice was gruffer than he had intended, but the alternative would have been worse. He felt an almost unbearable tenderness, one he could not possibly express without embarrassing himself.

“Yes, well,” Theon shrugged. “I am afraid I can neither juggle nor sing.”

“But you surely are as unafraid to speak you mind as a court jester. Do not believe I forgot your words before, or that I will forgive them. Where does your boldness come from?”

“I learned my lesson,” Theon said. “You see, I could use a new cloak, a thick and soft one, and I thought so might you.”

For a moment, Stannis was inclined to laugh. “What happened to Theon Turncloak, who cowered at my feet, and was too afraid to meet my eyes?”

“That was Reek, not Theon,” Theon said. “Yesterday, when you let me stay, you offered me a needle and threat. You do not get to take it back. I can sew cloaks for both of us, if you let me. You only need to see that I clearly understand more of the trade than you do.”

Stannis shook his head, torn between reluctant amusement and annoyance. “Stop this nonsense. Speak your mind, straightforward.”

“Was the colorful wording not to your liking, Your Grace?” Theon asked with a smirk, but he grew serious when Stannis scowled at him. “Is it so hard to understand that I wish to enjoy this – _savor this_ – to replace the memories that I can hardly bear to think of with happier ones? And as curious as it might seem to you – is it truly so odd that I would have your happiness in mind as well?”

“Is that what this is about?”

Theon simply nodded, and Stannis said, slowly, “I might come to believe that.”

It was a wondrous thing, and he wanted to doubt it, wanted to argue. He wanted to deny it outright. But for some reason, he did not. While Stannis still did not know why Theon would chose to be with him, after all he had done to him, he accepted it. 

How that had led, in the time span of a day and a night, to bedding Jon Snow in Theon’s presence – with Theon’s approval, nonetheless – Stannis failed to comprehend. And where would the road lead from here? 

To the Wall, and then... already the weight of the crown settled on his shoulders, and his thoughts went ahead of him. The letter. Aegon Targaryen. The South... 

Stannis took a deep breath. “It is the middle of the day. I have already lingered here for to long, I must not dally any longer.”

He did not know why he said it. It was not as if he needed to ask Theon for permission, or to seek his approval. 

Theon did not let go of his hand. If anything, he held on tighter, even as Stannis started to pull his hand back.

“No,” Theon whispered. “It is still early. In this weather, the lords will prefer to stay in bed, if they can, and no one will want to leave their fires. We are safe within these walls, and everything is well for now. Go to sleep. If anything requires your attention, the guards will knock, and I will answer the door.”

As if his words had power of a divine kind, Stannis felt the exhaustion overcome him. He sighed and let himself sink back into the blankets. “Only for a little while.”

“Of course,” Theon said. “Sleep, Your Grace.” 

Theon was right. His daughter, his hand – they were all in Winterfell, and there was no safer place for any of them.

Jon was fast asleep beside him, his long lashes shadowing a face that was unguarded in his sleep. 

Behind Jon, Theon supported himself on one arm, looking at Stannis with a mild amusement that he would have found unbearable, had it come from anyone else. Their fingers were still entwined, resting on Jon’s chest that was lifting and lowering with each breath. 

With a sigh, Stannis allowed himself to relax. Safe in the shared space of his bed, with the two men who had, for whatever reason, chosen to be with him, he fell asleep.


	36. Theon: Epilogue

As soon as he could be sure that both Stannis and Jon were sleeping soundly, Theon slid out of bed to use the chamber pot and drink some water. Gazing outside through the window, he could not see further than a couple of feet. He shook his head disdainfully and returned to the bed. 

Jon had rolled to his stomach in his sleep and was now occupying the side of the bed where Theon had lain before. Theon seized the opportunity to sneak in between him and Stannis, where the warmth of two bodies was enough to make him sleepy after a minute or two. 

He watched Jon for a moment, with a great deal of malicious glee. Jon would be sore when he woke up, and Theon fully intended to tease him about it. 

_I knew a hard fucking would do him good,_ Theon mused. _But I knew not just how much._

He also had not known how much it would please him to watch Stannis and Jon together. _Finally. Jon, you should have known that he would not approach you on his own._

It bordered on a miracle that they had, between the two of them, been able to convince Stannis to do this. 

_Where will we go from here?_ Theon did not know. _As long as we can be together like this, I do not care._

And yet...

_I wonder, would Stannis let me stay at Winterfell after all, as Lord Seaworth’s aide?_

He had told Stannis he wanted to go with him, and that was true. He wanted to be safe with the king, and far away from Winterfell, where memories still were haunting him when he took a wrong step, turned around the wrong corner. Good memories, from before the war, worn thin, and bad ones, more recent, from when he had been Reek. New ones, good and bad, from his time as Stannis’ prisoner. Leaving the castle would be a relief, but at the same time, it would be a flight, a means of escape. 

_I am starting to think it is time I stopped running away. Even when that means I get to stay with the king, safe and content. I am tired of being a lesser man, one who refuses to face his past, and lets himself be beaten by memories or hurt by scorn. A man who wants to be a salt boy out of fear to fail yet another time, not because it is the life he really wants._

_Maybe it is time I earn the right to be called something else than Theon Turncloak. And going with Stannis to the Nightfort, even if it is only for a few months, means that I cannot be of any help here._

_I would not be alone here either. I would have a little princess for company, and an ill-tempered wolf boy, and the king’s hand as someone who is willing to trust me, despite knowing who I am, and what I have done._

He wondered what Stannis would say to his change of heart. 

Deep down, he already knew the answer. _He would approve – and that is one more reason to make this decision. So that he can look at me with respect the way he looks at Jon._

Yet the thought of staying behind – moreover, staying behind while Jon accompanied Stannis, always at his side – left a sour taste in his throat. 

_I would not have dared to consider this yesterday, even when he told me how he felt about me. But he would have sent Jon away, had I demanded it,_ Theon told himself. _I can be sure of him._

Still, the prospect bothered him more than it should have.

He did not have to make a decision just yet. The snowfall would likely last for days. Days, and nights that, if Theon had any say in it, would not go to waste.

_Who knows what else might happen? The future is not set in stone. It is winter, but spring will come, one day, and until then, we have this, we have each other._

Theon settled in between Stannis and Jon. Feeling their warmth seep into him, he yawned and closed his eyes. 

The End


	37. Author's Note

There we are. It has been, as Theon would say, one hell of a ride. Thank you, all of you, who stuck with me for the long months it took to write, edit, and post this fic. I am deeply ashamed that I made you wait for updates so many times. On the other hand, if I had not posted this as a WIP, it would probably not have been finished at all. Knowing that I had an obligation to finish it really helped me write the ending. 

That being said, I would like to add a few notes concerning the ending and the fic as a whole.

The premise of the fic was a plot bunny that refused to leave me alone until I started writing. I never intended to end up with a fic of almost 130 k. I know that many people were squicked by the premise, because they thought canon!Stannis would never act this way. I agree; he wouldn’t. But I don’t regret anything.

I hope that the majority of you will like the ending. It is as happy as I could, with a good conscience, make it, and I hope it is not too sugary to be believable (within the framework of my OOC premise). A lot of issues remain unresolved, and I truly cannot say with conviction that everything will turn out well in the long run. It is a Song of Ice and Fire after all. 

I feel the need to distance myself a little from many views and opinions that the characters express throughout the fic, and clarify some points.

This fic has issues. Tons of them. Rape, torture, forced consent, abuse. While they were downplayed toward the end, where the focus shifted in favor of the polyamorous relationship, they are still there. Theon may have found some kind of balance, but that does not mean that everything is well. 

First of all, Theon, as we see him here, is a lot saner than George R. R. Martin depicts him in ADWD and the TWOW sample chapter. He also recovers relatively well, and I doubt that would be possible in reality/book canon.

Then, the relationship between him and Stannis is not exactly a healthy one. I would not want you to leave here with the impression I am unaware of that fact.

The main issue is obvious – a severe case of Stockholm syndrome, as we tend to call it. Falling in love with your rapist and coming to see him as your savior are not good things. 

In chapter XIV, where Stannis openly states that he raped Theon, I originally had included a line where Theon said, “You forced me, that much is true. One might call that rape, or not.” 

My beta reader, gods bless him, told me very frankly that this was kind of a no go. Consequently I cut that line. It really should not appear in any fic of mine, ever. But what I originally intended to show at that point was that Theon, despite knowing that Stannis mistreated him, fails to understand that he is in truth still a victim, and that what Stannis did to him was no better than what Ramsay did. Stannis is at least partly aware of that, but Theon is not. For Theon, the difference is huge, simply because what he suffered at Ramsay’s hands went above and beyond imagination and included a dimension of psychological torture that one fails to grasp in its consequence. 

But it is not a difference that we, as the audience, can take as an excuse for what Stannis did. Rape is rape. _Forced consent is rape._

As I said, their relationship is dysfunctional. But I think that in this context, in this universe, it is one that might work for both of them – maybe not in the long run, but for a while. And within its stipulations, Theon might have time to recover, and find happiness. Since psychological therapy is not exactly available in Westeros, the characters have to cope with war trauma and rape and torture one way or another. The decision to stay with Stannis is Theon’s choice, and while it is messed-up on many levels, it is also his way to cope with the ordeal he survived. A far cry from healthy, yes, but not necessarily the worst decision he could have made. And while he’s toying with the idea of leaving and being on his own, I don’t think he is strong enough at this point. 

This fic, however, is not merely about Theon. It is also about Stannis. No, canon!Stannis would likely never rape someone. But he is not the saint that some people make him either; he has a thirst for power and, blinded by Melisandre’s promise to help him win the throne, commits some rather questionable acts. He would have sacrificed Edric, if it hadn’t been for Davos. He chose to belief he was not to blame for Renly’s death when he clearly knew better. He did condone human sacrifices. 

This fic is, in a way, Stannis’ fall and redemption arc at once, and his character development is just as important as Theon’s recovery. I want to believe that both Stannis and Theon come out of it changed, and not for the worse. 

In comparison, the introduction of Jon as the third POV character was more of a plot device. While he has his own arc, it is not as important to the fic. He played a major part in Theon’s healing process, and I think that Jon’s understanding and forgiveness were essential to the positive outcome. But the threesome could only work because Theon and Stannis resolved their issues first. It is ultimately Theon who brings the three of them together. The stag within the fiery heart and the direwolf, bound by tendrils of gold – the Greyjoy kraken. Just in case you have been wondering what Melisandre’s vision meant. 

If you to want to talk to me, tell me your opinion about the ending, or ask any questions, please leave a review, I will try to respond in time. I would very much like to know whether you liked it or not, and concrit is always welcome. I am also on tumblr as [uniwolfwerecorn](http://uniwolfwerecorn.tumblr.com/) , in case you are interested in fandom rambling, meta posts, and other stuff.


End file.
